


Elementary 11: The Baker Street Years III (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Murder, Bigamy, Cosplay, Dean's Freckles, Destiel - Freeform, Divorce, F/M, Frottage, Gay Sex, Infidelity, Kidnapping, London, M/M, Murder, Theft, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case 44. STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN (The Case Of The Atkinson Brothers In Trincomalee)<br/>Case 45. MYSTERY SPOT (The Darlington Substitution Scandal)<br/>Case 46. THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME (The Armsworth Castle Affair)<br/><b>Case 47. BAD BOYS (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Stockbroker's Clerk')</b><br/><b>Case 48. IT'S A TERRIBLE LIFE (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty')</b><br/>Case 49. FREE TO BE YOU AND ME (The Case Of The (Re-)Tired Captain)<br/><b>Case 50. BEDTIME STORIES (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Crooked Man')</b><br/><b>Case 51. SALVATION (formerly 'A Case Of Identity')</b><br/>Case 52. I'M NO ANGEL (The Horrible Case Of The Dundas Separation)<br/>Case 53. MALLEUS MALEFICARUM (The Etheridge Affair)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

'Eighty-Eight was the famous year when rival railway companies were racing to provide the fastest trains from London to Scotland. For me, the year of our return from our somewhat enforced Continental adventures was when I became increasingly concerned that my overworked friend was himself running out of steam. Cas seemed to feel that he somehow had to make it up to the country for his short absence, and took on case after case, much to my and Mrs. Harvelle's growing concern. And just when I thought things could not get any worse, first a ghost from his past resurfaced with shocking news, then someone actually tried to kill him during a case, and was only prevented from doing so by my mercifully quick reactions. Things could surely not get any worse!

I was wrong, of course, for during the second half of that year a terrible shadow slowly threw itself across the greatest city in the world, in a series of brutal murders in the East End. I was often asked as to why the greatest detective in the land had not got involved in such a matter, and of course he did – but with unfortunate consequences, which are covered in their own section after these adventures.


	2. Case 44: Stairway To Heaven (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as the tragedy of the Arkinson brothers in Trincomalee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: references to suicide.

Foreword: This case became available for public disclosure following a letter I received towards the end of the Great War from a Mr. Jameson Monroe in the United States of America. Mr. Monroe is the eldest son of Mr. Abanezer Monroe and Miss Lily Atkinson, the latter lady being the sister of the brothers in this tragic tale. Though for reasons which will become obvious at the end of the story, I could not publish it along with my other cases in that momentous year of 'Eighty-Eight, Mr. Monroe urged me to do so, now that both his parents have passed on. He feels, and I concur, that society may take a kinder view of the tragic events at Trincomalee than it might have done three decades ago.  
   
+~+~+

I

I do not think I have ever been so glad to see the looming Georgian bulk of 221B as that cold winter's afternoon when our cab pulled up outside it. The ferry journey back from Rotterdam had been exceptionally choppy – I thanked God for Cas’ far-sighted warning not to eat anything prior to boarding the boat - and the train ride from Sheerness almost as miserable. However, I felt a rising tide of excitement as the South Eastern Railway train rumbled through the capital’s ever advancing southern suburbs, and was almost bubbling with anticipation when we finally drew into London Bridge, and hailed a London cab. A short ride later, and we were home. And the saints be praised, Mrs. Harvelle had a steaming hot dinner ready and waiting for us, the blessed woman!

That evening, happy and full, I lay back on the couch, enjoying the blazing fire and dressed in my favourite green dressing-gown. From a selection of back mail I was reading a letter from the Strand magazine asking when (or if) I would be producing more works concerning Mr. Castiel Novak. I had done a first draft of 'Frontierland' (our adventure with Mr. James Collins, the Greek interpreter) before our foreign jaunt, and I resolved to get this finished as soon as possible. I still had a little time off from the surgery, and resolved to spend it writing.

“And with me”, Cas said, again exhibiting that uncanny ability to read my mind. He came and sat beside me, wearing only his old blue dressing-gown and smelling of the vanilla soap he preferred. I sniffed at him, and he leaned against me, pulling my blanket over him. I smiled at him.

Then I froze. Cas' hand was inside my dressing-gown, and despite my exhaustion, at least one part of me was seemingly ready for action. I sighed in a put-upon way, but turn about was fair play, and I reached inside Cas' gown and started rubbing him off as well. He groaned in pleasure, and nuzzled into my neck, nibbling at my skin to leave what I knew would be a love-bite there. But I was too tired and happy to care.

Normally this sort of activity quickly evolved into a race as to who could get the other one off first, but this time we were both tired from our recent travels, and we were both happy just to be intimate with each other. Still holding each other, he looked up at me with those impossibly blue eyes, and then slowly rose, leading me willingly towards his room. Our gowns fell from us and we all but tumbled into his bed, wrapping around each other before falling into a deep sleep. My last conscious thought was that I did not deserve this glorious man, and that I resolved to do everything I could to make sure he was not overworked by the many demands that I knew our absence would have caused to pile up.

That resolve was to be tested just hours later.

+~+~+

Cas was unusually clingy (even by his octopus standards) the following morning, and I had to submit to a very demanding blow-job before I was allowed to leave the bed and fetch him his coffee. Honestly, the things I had to put up with!

With Mrs. Harvelle's delicious breakfast, there was a telegram. Cas frowned as he read it.  
   
“Not a case already?” I said, trying not to sound as if I was complaining (even though I was). “We are barely through the door!”  
   
“It is from my old tutor at Tarleton, Inias Atkinson”, Cas said, looking worried. “He says that he thinks we are not due back for some days, but he desperately needs my help.”  
   
I had no way of knowing this at the time, but a pattern had been set in which my friend was to be involved in one case after another without a break. At the time, I could only see that this letter meant a lot to him, and that he was torn between going to his friend’s aid, or staying with me for the rest of my time off. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to do the decent thing.  
   
“Let us see if the fragrant Mrs. Harvelle can be persuaded to pack us some sandwiches”, I said with a forced smile, “and then we can go to…. where does your friend live?”  
   
I fervently prayed it was not in some dark, distant part of the kingdom, and could barely suppress my relief when he answered, “St. John’s Wood.” Only a short cab ride, thank the Lord. He smiled at me in gratitude.  
   
+~+~+  
   
St. John’s Wood was (and still is) one of the better areas of London, and the Atkinsons’ house, Trincomalee, was in turn in one of its better areas, each house along Abbey Close possessing its own copious grounds. I felt surprised that a Cambridge tutor should be able to afford such luxury.  
   
“The family made their money in tea”, Cas explained as we walked up the long drive. “On the island of Ceylon, hence the house name. My tutor is a younger twin brother; his parents died a few years ago, and his brother Ion inherited the house. They used to live there with their sister Lily, who if I recall is some years younger than them, but she is away visiting the United States at the moment.”  
   
It was a huge place, if compact. The builders had gone for three storeys in a solid block, presumably to increase the already sizable garden still further. Cas’ and my attentions were more drawn to the ominous black wreath on the huge front door. That did not bode well.  
   
A maid admitted us, and we were showed into a generous-sized waiting-room. We had not long to wait before the maid returned, and bade us follow. We went upstairs to what turned out to be a study, and were ushered into the presence of, judging by Cas’ smile, Mr. Inias Atkinson. The man was about forty-five years of age, an alpha dressed in mourning-clothes, and clearly disturbed. His hair was mostly grey, and his face was lined with worry. He pointedly waited for the maid to withdraw before speaking, and I would always remember his first words.  
   
“My dearest friend, my best student”, he said in a low, pleasant voice. “I need your help with a murder.”

II

It was some little time later. Cas, Mr. Atkinson and I had adjourned to the lounge whence our host had pointedly locked the door. He sat down heavily in one of the large fireside chairs. His former student sat opposite him, and I took a chair at the table. It was uncannily similar to our regular arrangement at Baker Street.  
  
“Ion is dead”, Mr. Atkinson said mournfully.  
  
To my surprise Cas reached across and took the older man’s hand. My friend was not the most tactile of people, so this gesture was most unusual.  
  
“And there are problems, or you would not have summoned me”, Cas said gently.  
  
Our host nodded.  
  
“He died three days ago”, he said. He hesitated before going on. “Apparently someone broke into the house, and he surprised them. He was shot.”  
  
There was something distinctly odd about the man’s voice, I thought. He was describing the death of his twin brother, yet his voice seemed almost unnaturally steady.  
  
“I think you had better start right at the beginning”, Cas said. “Clearly there is a lot more to this tale.”  
  
Our host nodded, took a large gulp of his drink, and began.  
  
“Ion did a lot of volunteer work for the local community”, he explained, “in and around the Wood. Our father left all the money to him, but he trusted – correctly, of course – that Ion would treat me and Lily fairly. Neither of us had to work, and as I told you late last year, she decided to spend a year in the United States. I had always aspired to become a teacher, and I was fortunate enough to be accepted on a training course, eventually securing my position at Tarleton just three years before you appeared on the scene, Castiel.”  
  
I smiled inwardly as I remembered student Cas at Tarleton, meeting me for the second time over two dead bodies whose murders he solved in just hours. Our second adventure together, now some thirteen years into the past. At least he had found a good friend whilst he was there.  
  
“Ion had been ill of late, so I took a year’s leave to come and stay with him”, our host continued. “He was down for some months, but had recovered recently. I had thought things were finally starting to come right again – and then this!”  
  
Cas still had hold of the man’s hands, and he now reached forward and actually hugged him. It struck me for some reason at that point that Inias Atkinson was barely ten years older than his student. For some reason that thought disquieted me.  
  
“Friday was when it all happened”, he went on. “I had gone to lunch with some friends; I did not want to go, but Ion insisted, even though he was feeling sick again. I hurried back as quickly as I could, and went upstairs to get changed before seeing him. It had been raining, and I was soaked. If only…..”  
  
He gulped before pulling himself together.  
  
“That was when it must have happened”, he said. “I was still in my room when I heard the shot. I hurried to Ion’s room, but the door was blocked. Whoever had broken in must have pushed the heavy dresser next to the door across to block my entry. Fortunately two of the footmen arrived, and with their help I was able to push the door open….”  
  
“Could you not use a connecting door from an adjoining room?” Cas asked.  
  
The man blushed.  
  
“In the heat of the moment, I did not think of that”, he said. “Besides, James and John got the door partially open with our first push, so we were delayed by no more than a minute at most. We found poor Ion dead, a single bullet-wound in his head.”  
  
“So a burglar shot him?” I asked.  
  
“Indeed”, our host said. “It was a tragedy, and I was heartbroken – but things were about to get so much worse.”  
  
“How could they get worse?” I asked in wonder.  
  
Mr. Atkinson hesitated.  
  
“Have either of you heard of Sergeant Phineas Bartholomew?” he asked.  
  
Cas pursed his lips distastefully.  
  
“Most definitely”, he said, his voice unusually cold. 

I looked at him in surprise. Like me, Cas did not rate the capital's police service very highly, but open dislike was rare.  
  
“He was a constable under Henriksen when our Dutch colleague was a sergeant himself”, Cas explained. “There were two incidents when Victor suspected him of fixing evidence to secure convictions, and a further one when a case Victor was building against someone collapsed due to a piece of evidence going missing from a police locker-room. The beta was suspected in all three cases, but nothing could be proven. I think Victor arranged his transfer here possibly to get rid of him; his promotion - undeserved - must have come later.”  
  
“He has gotten his teeth into poor Ion’s murder”, Mr. Atkinson said, sounding almost angry. “He is convinced that it is suicide, for some reason. He clearly thinks that if he can prove it, it will be a great feather in his cap, and possibly a stepping-stone to his next promotion.”  
  
“There is no doubt that even the Metropolitan Police Service needs to be spared that particular calamity”, Cas said firmly.  
  
“Why does he think that?” I asked. “If you do not mind me asking, of course.”  
  
“Not at all, doctor”, our host smiled. “It is, I’m afraid, what our Italians friends call a vendetta. Ion worked as a volunteer on the Police Board, and he was against Mr. Bartholomew’s appointment. He was outvoted, but the man seems to hold a grudge to beyond the grave. It is quite impossible anyway; as I am sure you know, a gun fired at close range leaves tell-tale scorch marks, and there were none on poor Ion’s body. The doctor who examined him confirmed this, much to the sergeant's displeasure.”  
  
“Has he been back here since the day of the murder?” I asked.  
  
“Every day!” our host said, clearly unhappy at the fact.  
  
“And he has called today?” Cas asked.  
  
“Not yet. He usually comes between three and four o’clock.”  
  
I glanced at the old grandfather clock, ticking sonorously away to itself in the corner of the room. Five minutes to three.  
  
“We must make good use of the time we have”, Cas said. “Do you know if Sergeant Bartholomew found traces of a burglar or any signs of forced entry?”  
  
“He said the window to my brother’s room had not been forced”, Mr. Atkinson admitted.  
  
Cas looked at him strangely for some reason.  
  
“We must start with the scene of the crime”, he said. “Will you show it to us, please?”

III

The late Mr. Ion Atkinson’s room was on the third floor, and was a typical gentleman’s study. Cas frowned when he saw it.  
  
“There was only one shot fired?” Cas asked.  
  
“I only heard one”, Mr. Atkinson said. “Is that important?”  
  
“Then the killer was an excellent shot”, Cas muttered.  
  
For some reason that remark seemed to make our host uncomfortable. I wondered why.  
  
“What time did the murder take place?” Cas asked.  
  
“Four thirty-five”, our host answered promptly. “It was five minutes after I returned; I checked my watch as I came through the door, and timed my subsequent actions later.”  
  
Cas nodded.  
  
“What rooms adjoin this one?” he asked. “Both sides, above and below.”  
  
“Ion’s bedroom is through there”, Mr. Atkinson said, pointing to one side”, “and the other side leads to a small lavatory. The bedroom is accessible from the main corridor, whilst the lavatory is not. My dear brother was quite possessive about his bedroom, which may be why I did not think to access the room that way in the heat of the moment.”  
  
Cas poked his head through the lavatory door, but quickly withdrew it.  
  
“Only a small window”, he said, sounding disappointed. He crossed to the other door and looked into the bedroom, and this time there was a smile on his features when he drew back.”  
  
“Above is the attic, to which both Ion and I have the only keys”, Mr. Atkinson explained. “The door on the far side of his bedroom leads up to the attic....”

“Does the attic have a window?” Cas interrupted. Our host looked surprised.

“No, but there is a skylight, through which the roof can be reached”, he said. “As to below, I think both rooms are more or less directly above the smoking-room.”  
  
Cas nodded.  
  
“I presume Sergeant Bartholomew has examined this room?” he asked.  
  
“Very thoroughly”, our host said bitterly. “Three times.”  
  
“Were you with him each time?” Cas asked.  
  
“I refused to leave him here unaccompanied”, the man said stiffly. “Sorry I am to say it, but I did not put it past him to start planting evidence. From what little I know about his character, I felt that that was more than advisable.”  
  
“Did he ever go into either of the adjoining rooms?”  
  
“No. Though I did tell him what they were.”  
  
Cas smiled at that.

“What room does your brother's bedroom connect to?” he asked.

“A short corridor which includes the back stairs”, our host said, “on the opposite side of which is a side-door to my own bedroom.”  
  
“I have one other question”, Cas said, “then I must leave to put in place certain arrangements. Your late brother’s valet – can he be trusted?”  
  
“I would trust Phillips with my life”, our host said firmly. “He is staying on here until I can find him alternative employment, fortunately my own valet had a week's holiday, but I will not force a good servant out. I am trying to find him somewhere, and a man from a local agency is coming round the day after tomorrow.”  
  
Cas smiled, and took him by the hand.  
  
“Be strong, my friend”, he said. “We shall have you out of your own dark vale before too long.”

I wondered what he had meant by that.  
  
+~+~+  
  
It was not quite a quarter past three, but we were not to be spared a meeting with Sergeant Phineas Bartholomew, who arrived just as we were leaving. He was a tall blond beta in his thirties; I might have termed him handsome had I not known of his character. He almost glared at us when Mr. Atkinson said goodbye to us by name, so he clearly recognized us. I was glad to escape that look.  
  
Cas surprised me by staying in 221B that evening, although he did send out several messages, and seemed pleased when the replies came in. We enjoyed Mrs. Harvelle’s sumptuous repast, and I was again surprised when he suggested an early night. But I was still tired from the exertions of our European adventures, and was glad to turn in, safe in the knowledge we were both under the same roof in England.  
  
Again, I really should have known better.  


IV

Cas was, as I have stated on more than one occasion, not a morning person. Indeed, had I ever felt the urge to end it all, I probably need only have tried to stand between him and his first coffee of the day. But on the morning after our trip to St. John’s Wood, he emerged two hours later than usual, and seemed, incredibly, even more dishevelled (regrettably I was not to blame, for once). Fortunately he was back to his usual self at dinner, and the two of us set off back to Trincomalee around two o’clock. I was surprised, and not a little displeased, to find Sergeant Bartholomew waiting for us.  
  
“Mr. Novak, Doctor Winchester”, he said acidly.  
  
To my surprise Cas ignored him, and turned to Mr. Atkinson.  
  
“I am expecting a witness to come to the house very soon”, he said. “He will be a workman, dressed most probably in overalls. Can you please ensure that whoever lets him in shows him straight to us.”  
  
“A witness to the murder?” Mr. Atkinson asked, clearly dumbfounded.  
  
“Not exactly”, Cas smiled. “But he is important. He unwittingly provided something that was used in the crime.”  
  
The sergeant looked at him dubiously.  
  
“Let us begin”, Cas said firmly. “I have to say, sergeant, that I am disappointed in your thoroughness, of which I had heard so much from my dear friend Sergeant Henriksen. You missed several clues which prove indubitably that a burglary was attempted on this property.”  
  
The sergeant spluttered.  
  
“Sir!” he protested.  
  
“I presume that you checked for marks of forced entry into the house?” Cas asked, pointing up to the window of the room where the crime had taken place.  
  
“I did”, the policeman said smugly. “There were none.”  
  
Cas smiled and shook his head, which only seemed to annoy the policeman more.  
  
“A burglar would be extremely foolish to force entry through that window”, he said, more than a little condescendingly. “It is on the side of the house where the servants’ entrance is. Even though the man was in disguise, the fewer people who saw him, the better.”  
  
“How the hell can you know that?” the policeman snorted.  
  
Cas smiled knowingly.  
  
“Elementary”, he scoffed, and I detected a much harsher tone than the one he usually used to explain his reasoning at times like these. “Because Phillips, the late Mr. Ion Atkinson’s valet, lied.”  
  
“I told you that Phillips is as honest as the day is long”, Mr. Atkinson said defensively. Cas placed a comforting hand on his former tutor’s arm.  
  
“I do not mean to imply that he lied knowingly”, he said, his tone soothing. “When asked if he had seen any strangers outside that day, he said no. Once I had fully considered the case, I went back and asked him the same question in a slightly different way, knowing it would evince a different answer.”  
  
“And that answer was?” the sergeant asked sniffily.  
  
Cas pointed up the window. 

“A bedroom is always a favourite point of entry for burglars”, he explained, “especially during a daytime burglary which this was. You will observe that that window faces out the same way at the study, and can be seen from the road as well as from two houses nearby. The burglar ascended to it, but in doing so noticed the skylight, which because of the roof angle is ideal for a concealed entry to the house. And no-one would have been surprised to see him up there.”

“What?” the sergeant scoffed. “What was he; the Invisible Man?”  
  
“In a way, yes”, Cas smiled.  
  
We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a butler, who was followed by a man in plum-coloured overalls. They were emblazoned with a faded logo for the ‘North London Window-Cleaning Corporation’. Cas smiled at the newcomer.  
  
“Alfred”, he said, reading the man’s name-badge. “I must thank your employer for sparing you.”  
  
The tall man smiled, but said nothing, twisting his cap nervously.  
  
“Please can you confirm for these gentlemen what happened at your depot last week”, Cas said.  
  
“Went into work as usual last Saturday, and the place had been broken into. The only thing missing was my overalls, kept in the general store. Mr. Fraser was very good though; he let me borrow a spare set.”  
  
“And nothing else was taken?” Cas asked.  
  
“They tried to break into the office, but Fred, the local copper, came along and nearly caught the bastards. Sorry, sirs.”  
  
Cas looked at the three of us as if that explained everything.  
  
“I don’t get it”, I said at last.  
  
“The burglar was not invisible per se”, Cas explained. “But when I asked Phillips if he saw anyone outside, and not just a stranger, he said ‘only the man cleaning the windows’.”  
  
I gasped.  
  
“The burglar was disguised as a window-cleaner!” I exclaimed.  
  
“A perfect disguise”, Cas said. “The servants would not likely question him, and each of the people in the house might assume that someone else had arranged his call. Come!”  
  
He swept back into the house, and we followed in his wake, the sergeant still looking dubious. Up the stairs, Cas went not to the room where the body had been found but the bedroom next door, where he waited patiently for Mr. Atkinson to produce a key.”  
  
“Of course, sergeant, you did check this room”, Cas said matter-of-factly.  
  
The sergeant reddened somewhat.  
  
“I did not think it relevant to my inquiries”, he muttered.  
  
Cas gave him a heavy look, but said nothing. Instead he turned to our host.  
  
“This room has been untouched since that day?” he asked.  
  
“Certainly”, Mr. Atkinson said. “I gave strict instructions for the staff to avoid all three rooms, and only I had the keys to them.”  
  
Cas nodded, and entered the room. It was a typical gentleman’s bedroom. Cas walked across to the door in the corner and opened it, gesturing for us to come and look.”

“Tell me what you see, gentlemen”, he said.

“I do not see anything”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Novak....”

“That is your trouble”, Cas said sharply. “You do not see anything, yet you should see something.”

“Dust!” I burst out. Cas nodded, clearly pleased at my answer.

V

“This stairway to heaven has not been used for months, yet it has clearly been swept very recently”, he said. “Sergeant, if you would care to ascend, I will wager that you will find the skylight has been forced.”

The sergeant gave him a look that was a borderline glare, but went up the narrow stairs, having to bend so to do. A moment later he came down again.

“Someone's been up there, sure enough”, he admitted, clearly unwillingly. “There's a print from a small shoe by one of the chests.”

I noted that he glanced at Mr. Atkinson's shoes, only to frown. Cas' old tutor wore at least a size eleven.

“As he expected, our burglar reaches the bedroom via the skylight”, Cas explained. “No servant is going to walk the whole way around the house to find why the window-cleaner is not by his ladder, so he has some time. He is easily able to pick the lock to the bedroom, but then makes the mistake of entering the adjoining study.”

Cas beckoned us all to a point near the bed, then pointed to the floor. I did not see anything at first, but then I could just make out a few grains of sand.  
  
“The burglar clearly works or lives in or near an area where there is a sandy surface”, he said. “You will note that the sand lies between the attic door and the study door. All I can tell you about our killer is that he is approximately five foot eight inches tall, at least forty years of age, and dark-haired.”  
  
“Oh come on, Mr. Novak!” the sergeant protested. “There’s no way you could know that!”  
  
Cas stared at him. The man visibly quailed.  
  
“If you had done your job properly, then all this inane speculation about suicide might have been averted!” he said sharply. “Behold!”  
  
He went across to the connecting door. There was an old-fashioned hanging-curtain pulled back next to it, and he gestured us to come and look.  
  
“Two hairs”, he said, pointing to them. “The burglar stood here, most probably listening for anyone in the next room. He must have been of the stated height for the hairs to catch at that point; my own loose hairs would catch four to five inches higher. One is dark brown or black, and the other is grey, so he was in the process of going grey, which denotes his likely age. Unfortunately Mr. Ion Atkinson must have been dozing, because the burglar entered having heard nothing.”

He span round to face the sergeant.

“I have to say, Mr. Bartholomew”, he said unpleasantly, “that I am strongly minded to speak to your superiors about what you have put this poor man through over the unhappy killing of his dear brother. You work has been both shoddy and unprofessional. I think it would be best if you were to leave.”  
  
The sergeant blushed again, made his excuses and beat a hasty retreat. I waited until he was gone before turning to congratulate my friend.  
  
“That was brilliant!” I smiled. “I do hope I shall get to write about it soon.”  
  
To my surprise he blushed, and looked awkwardly at our host.  
  
“I very much doubt it”, he said. “Great Detective Covers Up Suicide would probably shock your gentle readers somewhat.”  
  
I stared at him in shock.  
  
“What do you mean?” I asked.  
  
Cas turned to his host.  
  
“I am so sorry”, he said.  
  
Mr. Atkinson hung his head and sniffed mournfully. I stared between the two men. What was going on?

“I should have known”, our host muttered, looking down. “Thank you, Castiel.”

Cas shook his hand, and gestured for me to follow him away. I scuttled after him.

“What was that all about?” I demanded.

“Mr. Inias Atkinson shot his brother”, Cas said as we walked outside. I promptly fell over my feet.

“What?” I squawked from my undignified position on the gravelled driveway. He helped me up.

“Last night, I went back to the house and broke in myself”, Cas said. “I searched his brother's room, and found exactly what I had feared.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“A letter concerning his appointment with a Doctor Feldspar in Harley Street.”

I fell silent. I knew enough of that great thoroughfare to know that the famous Doctor Kenton Feldspar only dealt with one type of patient - those suffering from a terminal illness.

“The decline would have been slow and painful, and Mr. Ion Atkinson would likely have suffered for years”, Cas explained. “His brother could not bear that, so they came up with a solution. Mr. Ion would be shot by a 'burglar', who would then escape. In reality, his brother went straight to him when he returned, shot him from across the room, then left through the connecting door to the bedroom, which as you saw connects onto his own study and his own room. He then emerged only a few seconds late to 'find' his brother dead.”

“But why did Ion Atkinson not take his own life?” I asked. “Why drag his poor brother into this?”

“As Inias told us, a gun fired close up would leave tell-tale scorch marks”, Cas explained. “Inias was always an excellent shot, and helped run the gun club at college. It was that which alerted me to the possibility that he might be involved.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“You planted those clues”, I said slowly. “The hairs, the sand, the forced skylight, the print. And the window-cleaner?”

“I helped clear up a small matter for his employer some years back”, Cas explained. “In my line of business, I suspected I might have need of his help in a case like this, so I extracted a promise of aid rather than payment. Alfred is his son, though he does work for the company, so he was, as you say, 'in on it'.”

I chuckled.

“What is it?” my friend asked.

“Only we keep getting murders with no murderer of late!” I smiled. “Oh for a real killer!”

I had no knowledge then just how soon that request was to be granted.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would involve a woman's intuition, a boy who was not what he seemed, and a prominent political figure.


	3. Case 45: Mystery Spot (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, referred to elsewhere as 'the Darlington Substitution Scandal'.

I

I have known my friend take on many cases that brought little or no financial reward (not of course that he needed it), whilst he would often reject cases for a variety of reasons. I will not embarrass the leading politician of the eighties who turned up at 221B one day absolutely certain that Cas would take his case, then added to his faux pas by demanding that I not be present. I have rarely seen my friend angry, but had the politician in question not taken the hint and left when he had, I feared violence might have ensued. Similarly, Cas accepted cases for many reasons, but few had such a strange starting-point as the Darlington Substitution Scandal, or as my friend preferred to call it, the Mystery Spot.  
   
Lord Darlington was, at the time of this story, one of the rising stars of the government, and confidently expected to be appointed a minister in the next reshuffle. As I have mentioned before, the lines of party loyalty were more blurred back in those days, and he was much admired by both his own party and the opposition. Thus when ‘Lady Darlington’ was announced by Mrs. Harvelle on one fine spring day barely a week after the Atkinson case had ended, I sat up expectantly. I knew from the society pages (which I did not read as often as Cas claimed!) that she was thirty-seven years of age, famously beautiful, and the daughter and heiress of the late steel magnate Sir Lewis Hampton-Bessemer. Her husband owned a main property in the Yorkshire Dales called Hartrigg Hall, as well as a hunting-lodge in the North of Scotland, property in the Durham town he took his name from, and a large house in Berkeley Square. They had but one child, a son called Stephen, who was eleven years old.  
   
Perhaps I did read those pages just a little more than I thought.  
   
Lady Darlington was indeed beautiful, but one look at her frail features told me this was a lady in distress. Mrs. Harvelle bustled away to bring tea and cakes, and Cas gently led our visitor to the fireplace chair before taking the seat opposite her. Surprisingly, her first words were addressed to me.  
   
“I know you keep records of your friend’s many successes, doctor”, she said in her melodious tone, “but if he does decide to take my case, I doubt you will want to document it. I am not even sure the great Mr. Castiel Novak can help me.”  
   
“Perhaps you should explain exactly what help you require, my lady”, Cas said gently.  
   
She hesitated.  
   
“I have read of some of the cases you have solved”, she said, “often with very little to work with. But more, I suspect, than in what I have to ask of you. Mr. Novak, something is wrong with my son.”  
   
We both looked at her expectantly, but it seemed that that was it.  
   
“Surely Doctor Winchester would be more suited to your needs”, Cas ventured.  
   
“I did not mean medically”, she said, twisting her hands nervously. “I mean….. it is very hard to explain.”  
   
Cas sat back and put his barley-sugar pipe into his mouth.  
   
“You are a lady of breeding and sense, Lady Darlington”, he said quietly. “You would not travel through this city's horrible traffic merely on a ‘hunch’. When did you notice something was amiss?”  
   
“Last December, Stephen wanted to spend a few months working on John’s estate in Yorkshire”, she said. “He was ahead with his school work, so I agreed. But when he came back a couple of weeks ago, he was much more withdrawn than before. He is not exactly rude as such, but he used to be considerate of others, even the servants, and that has gone. He dresses untidily, and takes little care of his appearance. He has even started taking his meals in his own room; John is not happy, but he allows it for now. Something happened to him up in Yorkshire, and it makes me feel uneasy.”  
   
Cas frowned.  
   
“Does your husband make frequent business trips north?” he asked.  
   
She seemed surprised at the question, but nodded.  
   
“For about a week every month”, she said. “He stayed with Stephen for three weeks when he started on our estates up there, which was unusual. But he always regrets going, and sends me little tokens to show he is thinking of me if he has to stay longer than his five days. Yet I am sure he knows something about what happened to my son up there.”  
   
Cas pressed his fingers together as he thought.  
   
“Some questions”, he said at last. “First, has your husband always spent a fair amount of his time on his estates in the North?”  
   
“Not until two years ago”, she said. “You may remember that there was a small crash in the stock market at that time, and John moved his investments out of London and to the North before it happened. The family has always held some lands in Darlington, which is just over the border with Yorkshire, but he expanded by buying a number of adjoining small farms in the Dales, to create larger, more economical units. That is why he needs to be there for so long; these farms all very remote.”  
   
“Tell me about your own family”, Cas asked. She looked surprised at the question, but answered readily enough.  
   
“My father was first cousin to the famous Henry Bessemer”, she said, “and a major investor at a time when his inventions were still considered dubious. Dear Uncle Henry – I always called him that - never forgot that help, and those investments were returned manifold. Unfortunately my father died fighting in the Crimean War – he was some years younger than his cousin – and my dear mama raised me, and managed all my investments for me.”

“I met my first husband, William Allerton, thirteen years ago, and it was a whirlwind romance. He was a local businessman, ten years my senior, but there was something very obvious between us. We married barely a month after we had first met, and I had Stephen ten months later. Unhappily poor William died in a mining disaster; he was inspecting the place for my father, and was trapped underground. I met John at a ball in York five years ago, and we were married a year to the day afterwards. Having Stephen adopted as his heir was, I made clear, a condition of marriage.”  
   
“Has your husband changed at all of late?” Cas asked.  
   
Lady Darlington seemed to have to think about that one.  
   
“He has been working harder than usual”, she admitted, “but he has not changed towards me. Indeed, if anything he is even more attentive than usual.”  
   
“How so?” Cas asked.  
   
“I had a slight illness last month, and he cancelled his trip north to stay with me”, she said. “Just a winter chill, and I told him he should go anyway, but he insisted.”  
   
Cas nodded. There was a long silence.  
   
“There is something you have not told me, Lady Darlington”, Cas said at last.  
   
“Sir....”  
   
“You are keeping something back”, Cas said firmly. “Something important.”  
   
She blushed fiercely.  
   
“What is it?” Cas insisted.  
   
For a moment I thought she would refuse to say, but suddenly she spoke.

II

“It is such a silly thing”, she said, looking even more embarrassed, “and there is probably a rational explanation for it. It is just the way things have been....”

She hesitated for several moments before continuing.

“Stephen has a small number of freckles, which I have always found endearing. Most are on his chest, but he has one on his left cheek. The other day I caught him looking at himself in the mirror, and it was only later, when I was doing my hair that night, that I realized it. A mirror reflects things, which means the freckle was on his right cheek. I thought I must have imagined it, and John had to try not to laugh at me when I told him. Sure enough, the next day it was on his left cheek after all.”  
  
Cas thought for a moment.  
  
“Does your husband know you have come here today?” he asked.  
  
“No. I do not like keeping secrets from him, but I had a feeling that he would not have approved. And it is not exactly something I would wish to go to the police about.”  
  
“Does anybody else know?”  
  
“No. I told the servants that I was going shopping.”  
  
“Then you must be sure to return with some purchases”, Cas said. “Lady Darlington, I must be frank with you. I see several possibilities with this case, and none of them are good. Danger may be approaching your family, and it is vitally important that the person behind it does not even begin to suspect my involvement. If we are careful, we may be able to catch them.”  
  
“Sir, you are frightening me!” she exclaimed.  
  
“Forewarned is forearmed”, Cas said. “Tell me, are there any special dates in your son’s life?”  
  
She looked at him in surprise.  
  
“Yes”, she said. “there is his twelfth birthday, next month. There is an old clause in the Darlington family estate which prevents any child under that age from being acknowledged as an heir, I presume because of the high infant mortality rate.”  
  
“On what day?” Cas pressed.  
  
“The nineteenth, about three weeks from now.”  
  
“I have a feeling that that date is important”, Cas said. “Does your husband travel north before that date?”  
  
“He always goes around the middle of each month”, she said, “and I know that he has to travel up on the sixteenth and return late on the twentieth. Stephen will have his birthday marked on the day after. Do you think either of them are in danger?”  
  
“It is a possibility we must consider”, Cas said firmly. “I am sorry that there is so little comfort I can offer, Lady Darlington, but just as Winchester here must tell patients the way things are, good or bad, so must I tell my clients. I think it best, bearing in mind the risk, that you do not attempt communication with us before your son’s birthday, unless there is some change in your husband’s schedule. In that case, I suggest a telegram. If we have anything to tell you, we shall of course find a means by which to contact you.”  
  
“How?” she asked.  
  
Cas’s eyes twinkled.  
  
“A detective cannot reveal all his secrets, my lady”, he said. “Ah, I hear Mrs. Harvelle coming with our tea. We shall eat and drink and not worry for a little while, then you shall do your shopping and return to Berkeley Square.”  
  
+~+~+

The day of Lady Darlington's visit was one where I was working at home, finishing off my re-editing of 'Frontierland' (I do not know why this particular story caused me so much trouble, but it had taken months before it felt right enough to consider sending to the Strand magazine). Cas had to go out, presumably in connection with the case, so I was left alone in the room. I was always absorbed in my work when writing, and had not Mrs. Harvelle sent up lunch, I would probably have forgotten to eat.

Cas returned that afternoon, and seemed more preoccupied than usual. I had finished my manuscript – he had already checked the original version – and took it down to post it off. When I returned we had a quiet dinner, and after some light reading I decided to turn in. Though I was silently pleased when Cas followed me into my room, I was surprised when he laid a hand on me, stopping me from getting undressed.

“Dean”, he said in that unmistakable low growl of his, “how many times did you look in the mirror today?”

I pouted. Damn the man, he knew me too well! Lady Darlington's remarks about freckles had, predictably, aroused my own insecurities about all the ones on my own body, which I had always felt were something an alpha should not have (I knew there was no medical reason why they should fade for alphas, but something inside me had always hoped they would anyway). Cas must have known about how little I liked them, because he hardly ever remarked on them.

Except for now.

“A few times”, I admitted.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.

“Seven or eight”, I said gruffly. 

He wrapped himself around me, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“You do know that some people claim that freckles are in fact angel kisses”, he purred. “If that were true, then you should be covered in them, not just the ones on your chest, face, and....."

Oh.

III

He had moved round to in front of me, and was slowly unbuckling my trousers. I gulped, shaking slightly as I stood there and watched him slide my underwear to the ground before guiding me out of it. He then slowly unbuckled my shirt, moving much more slowly than usual, and before too long he had me totally naked. Then he led me to the bed and gently laid me out on it.

“You think too little of yourself, Dean”, he said gently. “Tonight, I want to worship you and your freckles. Each and every one of them.”

He leaned over me and started by kissing his way along the starburst of freckles on my left ankle, before moving up my leg. I tensed – I had one solitary freckle on the sensitive underside of my cock – but typically he by-passed that one and instead concentrated on the run along my right thigh, before moving up to and along my right arm. For some reason the one just below my elbow was sensitive, and I shuddered again.

“Interesting”, he purred, and I knew he was cataloguing my responses for future use. He worked his way along my neck and down my left arm, and my cock grew ever harder at his attentions, before he returned to my face and kissed his way along my jaw. It felt weird his kissing my nose, but clearly at least one part of my body disagreed with that. Then he gestured for me to turn over so he could reach my back, and I did so.

There was a short pause before I felt his lips in the small of my back, which turned out to be another highly sensitive area, eliciting a dirty chuckle from the very obviously now-naked great detective. I had fewer freckles there, and it did not take him long to finish with the one under my left arm, which proved ticklish. I immediately turned over.

“There”, he said, sounding satisfied. “That's all of them.”

I frowned.

“You missed one”, I pointed out.

He looked surprised, but the grinned knowingly. And before I could react, he was taking my length, freckle and all, and sucking me off like his life depended on it! I let out a noise that should only usually have come from gerbils, writhing on the bed in a mixture of agony and ecstasy. I tried to warn him, but he must have known what would happen and within seconds I was coming uncontrollably down his throat. It seemed to last an age, but finally I sank back exhausted, and he slid up to lie half on top of me, kissing me so that I could taste my own ejaculate on his lips. He was a little tentative over it, so I pulled him into a deeper kiss, then manoeuvred him on top of me and grabbed him with both arms. He was mine, and I loved him.

+~+~+  
  
Whatever Cas did as regards the Darlington case over the next two weeks I do not know, but one Friday (not my usual day, but I was covering for a sickness absence) he cornered me before I left for work.  
  
“Would you be able to accompany me to Yorkshire next week?” he said. “Or are you too busy at the surgery?”  
  
Fortunately that year had seen a milder than usual winter, so I was able to affirm that I could travel North with him. The smile on his face was reward enough for what I knew would be an intolerably long train journey and indifferent hostelries.  
  
+~+~+  
  
I was surprised when, upon leaving Baker Street at a most unseasonable hour the following Monday morning, we crossed the Marylebone Road and continued south, rather than turning east for King’s Cross Station. I looked at my friend curiously, and wondered if this was connected to both his casual attire and his request the night before for me to dress similarly. Seeing Cas out of his usual suit was almost like seeing him naked…..  
  
“So soon after this morning, doctor?” he quipped. “Are you sure that would be good for you?”

I hated it when he did that!  
  
“Where are we going?” I asked, definitely not pouting.  
  
“Berkeley Square”, he answered. “I wish to make sure that our target takes his train.”  
  
“We are following Lord Darlington?” I asked excitedly, my wandering mind mercifully forgotten.  
  
“We have some inquiries to make in the White Rose County”, Cas said. “I fully expect that, despite the supposed backwardness of the area, word will swiftly reach His Lordship of those inquiries. I doubt that he will be pleased.”  
  
“You think he may be the target?”  
  
“He will likely go to the station”, Cas said, and I noted that he had avoided answering my question. “I doubt he will be pleased that we are involved in this matter, but that is not my concern. I am more worried about keeping his dear lady wife in this world rather than the next.”  
  
“You fear her life is in danger?” I asked.  
  
“I am certain of it”, he said.  
  
“And her son?”  
  
“The boy in Berkeley Square is perfectly safe.”  
  
Our conversation was curtailed by our cab’s arrival in Berkeley Square, where we found a second cab already waiting outside Darlington House. After about fifteen minutes Lord Darlington emerged with his wife, whom he kissed farewell before mounting the cab and leaving. Lady Darlington seemed to wave to someone out of my sight on the other corner of the square before returning to the house.  
  
“I arranged that she should do that as a signal”, “Cas explained. “All is well; her husband is headed to King’s Cross as planned. Had it been otherwise, she would have walked over to post a letter in the pillar-box opposite.”

IV

Cas called up the destination to our cabbie, and we rumbled off in distant pursuit. Once at the station, we followed Lord Darlington onto the platform, and eventually secured the compartment next but one to his. Cas explained that we would have to keep getting up at the stops as our target could leave via the compartment door or corridor, but he fully expected him to alight some way into Yorkshire. Sure enough, we reached Doncaster for the change from Great Northern to North Eastern Railway rails with him still on board, and he remained there through Selby, York and Thirsk, before he finally left the train at Northallerton. Cas put a restraining had on me as I left the train.  
  
“He will stay at the Station Hotel for the first two nights, as is his habit”, he said. “We must endeavour to find somewhere salubrious enough for two wandering souls on a week’s holiday in the Dales.”  
  
We were fortunate enough to find a fair-sized inn in the town which let rooms this early in the season, though unfortunate to be caught in a swift downpour en route from the station. Cas’ hair looked even more of a mess than usual, and I was heartily glad when the landlord said two hot baths could be made available. We squelched into our room and divested ourselves of our clothes; Cas seemed to be having particular trouble with his left cuff button, and growled in annoyance at it. I chuckled.  
  
“Come here”, I said, having got myself into my dressing-gown. I managed to extract his button from the thread it had caught on, and the sleeve hung loose. But as I went to take my hand back, he suddenly grasped my wrist, and stared straight into my eyes.  
  
“Thank you, Dean”, he said quietly.  
  
That look was too intense. I blushed fiercely.  
  
“It was only a button”, I said, almost defensively.  
  
“Not just for that”, Cas smiled. “For everything. For being you. For being the man I love. Thank you.”  
  
I was saved by a knock at the door, and the maid’s voice calling out that our baths were ready. Unfortunately they were in separate rooms, but at least our double room meant it would be a comfortable night. Or a rough one. I did not mind, either way.  
  
+~+~+

Actually, I preferred the rough one. Which was lucky, as things turned out....

+~+~+  
  
The next morning, Cas went off up the dale to do whatever he had planned to do, and I went to the hotel to see what Lord Darlington was up to. I had feared there were just too many opportunities for me to either lose him or, worse, be seen following him, but it turned out my fears were groundless.  
  
“He ordered a cab to take him to the village of Fallowford after breakfast, and luckily he did so at the reception desk within my hearing”, I told Cas later. “I talked with the receptionist, and she said he often went there, so I took a chance and went on ahead to the centre of the village. It is only a few houses, not more than fifteen I would say, and when he arrived he went straight into one of them. It was Rose Cottage, owned by a Mr. Thomas Drake. I was glad I had my book, because he did not emerge all day. I had lunch at the inn, and was close enough when he left to hear him order the cabbie to take him back to the hotel. I had to walk over a mile to Hardale before I was lucky enough it run into a party of tourists, and they let me ride back to town in their carriage.”  
  
Cas nodded at my tale.  
  
“You did well”, he said, and I tried not to preen (I failed). “If he goes back to the village tomorrow, which I fully expect, make sure you have your lunch at the same inn.”  
  
“Will that not alert him?” I asked.  
  
“As things now stand, I would quite like for Lord Darlington to be alerted”, Cas smiled. “I think it is the key to the whole problem.”  
  
+~+~+  
  
On Tuesday Lord Darlington did not return to the village, but went to the station and took a train to the town from which he took his name. It turned out that he was attending some civic function involving the opening of a new park in the town, and like most such events, it dragged on well into the afternoon. He called in at a legal firm after the event, then returned to the station where, annoyingly, I briefly lost him, being delayed in traffic. However, on arriving back at the hotel I found that he had been there for such little time that he must have returned straight from his trip. Cas would not reveal the fruits of his own labours as yet, but he seemed quietly pleased.  
  
The following day was the eighth, and Lord Darlington again went out to Fallowford. I followed Cas’ instructions, and extracted from one of the locals at the Pig and Whistle that the nobleman visited this place regularly, and that Mr. Drake was an old retainer from Darlington Hall, who had retired some years back to a house paid for by his late employer. It struck me as odd that the nobleman would go to such an expense, but my contact told me that Mr. Drake had been in employment with both Lord Darlington’s father and grandfather, so maybe there was a strong sense of obligation there.  
  
Unfortunately the nearest post office was back in Hardale, so I decided to walk there after lunch and communicate my findings to Cas, who had said he would be at the inn all afternoon. I had anticipated a quiet end to my day’s detective work, but on my way back to Fallowford I heard the sound of approaching hooves, and only narrowly managed to get myself off to the safety of a convenient copse before Lord Darlington rode by, at some speed. I watched him go, and decided to return to Hardale to inform Cas, but on my arrival I found the post office about to send a boy looking for me with a telegram from the great detective. He instructed me to remain in the village, and that he would be joining me very soon. Puzzled, I did as I was asked.  
  
+~+~+  
  
Cas arrived on horseback, with a second horse (presumably for me) on a leading rein. It was long dark, almost nine o'clock, and he looked even more windblown than usual. Deferring all questions, he asked that I show him the house Lord Darlington had been visiting, then surprised me by marching up the path and thumping loudly at the door. It was eventually opened by the house owner, and some tense words were exchanged. Both men then went into the house, but only a few minutes later Cas returned, this time with company, a small boy by the size of him.  
  
“We must return at once to Northallerton”, Cas said firmly. “I am sorry, doctor, but explanations must wait until later. Dark things may still happen if we do not act fast.”  
  
“At least tell me who that is?” I asked, as I hoisted myself up onto my mount. I nearly fell off the other side at my friend’s response.  
  
“Master Stephen Darlington.”  


V

We returned not to the inn, but to the railway station. I was surprised, as surely the last train of the day must have gone by now.  
  
“I wired Balthazar, and he chartered a special for us”, Cas said. “We may be safe here, but I would rather not risk it. The train will take us all the way to London, so we can sleep overnight.”  
  
“After you have explained everything”, I said, as Cas hustled his young charge onto the platform. The man nodded.  
  
Our special turned out to be a two-coach train, with a sleeper coach at the back and a small first-class coach at the front. Corridor-connected too, I noticed. Cas took the boy into the sleeper coach and presumably saw him to bed, returning only when the train was under way.  
  
“This has been a dark case, doctor”, he said, looking tired from his exertions. I too was exhausted, but wanted to know all before I could sleep. “Fortunately the gods have been with us, and I can safely say that we have prevented a double murder.”  
  
“A double murder?” I gasped. He nodded.  
  
“Lady Darlington and her son.”  
  
I stared at him in shock.  
  
“Around two years ago, Lord Darlington was made aware that he had a son of his own blood through an affair he had had some years before his marriage to Lady Darlington”, Cas began. “The lady, who was local to the Northallerton area, died not long after informing him of his first-born son.”  
  
“How do you know this?” I asked.  
  
“I searched the official records of the churches in Wensleydale, and at Askrigg I found a lady whose age and death matched what I was looking for”, he explained. “Her name was Adelaide Drake, and yes, she was the niece of Mr. Thomas Drake.”  
  
“Lord Darlington has a reputation of being a risk-taker, and he comes up with an idea”, Cas went on. “He persuades his adopted son to join him on a prolonged trip of the North last December. In fact, what happens is that Stephen Darlington is kidnapped and kept partially sedated, whilst Lord Darlington's natural son, William Drake, takes his place. Lord Darlington has some little time to train him up, and they then return south. Fortunately he is entering puberty, so it is hoped that Lady Darlington will ascribe his changes in character to that, plus of course he is fortunate to have inherited some of the same physical characteristics from his father.”  
  
I sat in stunned silence.  
  
“They only have just over a month to hold out, and the substituted boy will soon be away at school – a new one, of course – for much of that time. Then once the hidden Stephen Darlington is twelve years old, his half-brother can inherit in his name. I doubt the imprisoned boy would have survived for long after that date. You will also remember that Lady Darlington had her brief illness recently. That was her husband preparing to strike and remove her. He has returned to London by the evening train, but I have wired ahead to his wife, and she has answered that she has left for Gabriel’s hotel as I arranged. Her husband will find only his replacement son when he reaches Berkeley Square.”  
  
“And the mystery spot?” I asked.  
  
“William Drake closely resembled his half-brother, except for that freckle”, Cas explained. “He avoided Lady Darlington as much as possible, but presumably his father told him that she had to at least see his face once or twice, so he applied the freckle using theatrical make-up. Except he forgot that applying something in a mirror, the image is reversed. Though he thought that the freckle was on the left cheek, it was in fact on his right. Lady Darlington mentioned it to her husband who immediately corrected his son; presumably they hoped she would just think she had been mistaken.”  
  
I sat back, still trying to piece it all together.  
  
“The government?” I asked. Cas shook his head.  
  
“I suspect that by the time we reach London, Lord Darlington and his substituted son will have fled the country”, he said. “Perhaps it is better that way. The embarrassment for Lady Darlington would otherwise be terrible rather than just awful.”  
  
+~+~+  
  
Cas was, as usual, right in his assessment. The following day, the newspapers were filled with the sensational disappearance of Lord Darlington, with all sorts of strange speculations as to the cause. He had managed to secure some of his investments before fleeing, but there was more than enough for Lady Darlington to take her son – the real one – and retire to a quiet country life which, she later wrote in her thank-you letter to us both, she had always yearned for.

+~+~+

In our next case together, Cas would return to the White Rose County and fail to find something of great value. Or perhaps not....


	4. Case 46: There's No Place Like Home (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned - and mis-spelled – elsewhere as 'the Arnsworth Castle Affair'.

Foreword: I had not intended to include this amongst the extra cases to be published. However, rumours put about by relations of the Huffington-Brands that Cas failed their family have prompted me to add it to this book to put the record straight. In one sense it was indeed a failure, albeit a carefully engineered one. And I must admit that it is a fault in my own doctor's scrawl, and the inattention of my editor, that led to the mis-spelling on the one time I referred to this case elsewhere as taking place in 'Arnsworth', not the correct Armsworth.

+~+~+

I

I had always felt an affinity with the works of the Brontë Sisters, and their dystopian works set in the wilds of the West Riding of Yorkshire. Thus the chance to visit the area and to see the famous Armsworth Castle, scene of the year-long Civil War siege, was welcome indeed. 

We were back in Yorkshire barely a week after the conclusion of the Darlington Substitution Scandal, and I had used the train journey to review my notes on 'Alex Annie Alexis Ann', our first encounter with the demon Margaret Masters. The Strand magazine had increased their payments for my works, and even Cas had seemed to be moderately impressed at my efforts, though he still said I veered too much to the dramatic. But he said it with a smile in those blue eyes of his, and I knew he did not really mean it as a criticism. It was a fine, sunny spring day, and once we had changed at Leeds for the local train to Keighley, I sat back contentedly in my first-class seat. My life was good just now.

Cas looked at me amusedly.

“I doubt this case will feature amongst your literary works”, he observed. “No murder, just a questionable inheritance.”

“Tell me about it”, I said, sitting forward. I knew he had received a telegram late the previous night, his having come to my room to ask if I could accompany him on this adventure.

“It concerns the recent death of Mr. Josiah Huffington, the owner of Armsworth Castle”, he began. “I am sure you know the history of the place, and he is the last of the direct male line. He died of pneumonia at the age of forty-one.”

I nodded. I had read of the death in the Times some while back. I wondered why the matter was suddenly so important four weeks on.

“Though he had no direct heirs, his niece Mrs. Jennifer Huffington-Brand – he had asked she and her husband both take his name - lived in the castle, along with her husband Cameron. They have asked me to help them out. Reading between the lines, I suspect that the fact his niece married an Scotsman did not sit well with the late Mr. Josiah Huffington. I did have some suspicions about the death, but the local coroner examined the body, and he answered my queries by telling me that the man had contracted pneumonia these last three winters, it proving fatal this time.”

“The castle was the late Josiah Huffington's to dispose of as he wished, and he left a somewhat peculiar will”, Cas went on. “The buildings were to become, for one month, the property of his niece and her husband, and they were to be paid an allowance for living there. Of course, there was a catch. The will stated that the couple had to locate the whereabouts of Mr. Josiah's wealth in that time, after which the building and its entire contents would be donated to the town of Keighley. I also note that they have waited until there are only three days to go before calling me in, so I am not best pleased.”

“They want you to find the money, then?” I asked. He nodded.

“There were the usual bequests to servants”, he said, “quite generous ones from what I have been told, but yes. After he only narrowly survived his illness last winter, Mr. Josiah Huffington appears to have spent the year removing his money from bonds and investments, and presumably changing it into some other form. Whatever that was, it has successfully eluded his niece's efforts to locate it thus far.”

“So in three days they are homeless”, I observed.

“That, no”, Cas said. “Mr. Josiah left sufficient funds to purchase a small house in the town should they fail to locate the wealth, but from Mrs. Huffington-Brand's letter, that is not an option which particularly appeals to her. I dare say we shall know more once we reach our destination, which is but a short cab ride from the station.”

+~+~+

We arrived in Keighley some little time later, and the ride to Armsworth Castle took barely five minutes. It holds a commanding position on a hill where the little River Worth joined the much larger River Aire, and it was easy to see why it had been able to withstand a siege for so long. I remembered that legend had it that Nehemiah Huffington, who had initially held the castle for King Charles, had betrayed its defences to the parliamentarians in return for being allowed to keep his estates, and it was notable that, unlike other places such as Corfe, the fortress had not been 'slighted' afterwards as was usually the case.

Two rather poorly-presented servants took our bags up to our rooms, and we were asked to attend our hosts at once. We found them waiting for us in the sitting-room. 

Cas entertained all sorts of strange clients during his career, but few elicited such a strong negative reaction from me as the Huffington-Brands at that first encounter. Had we not had the coroner's assurance that the late Josiah Huffington's death had been accidental, I should have suspected them within moments of meeting them. Mrs. Huffington-Brand – 'call me Jenny, please' she simpered at Cas, despite her husband being right there in the room! – was younger than I had expected, possibly just over thirty; it was hard to tell beneath the construction worker levels of make-up she was wearing. She used perfume like a battering-ram; I stepped back and had to suppress a cough at the stench of violets! And her fake smile was almost as grating as her voice. 

Her husband was little better, an oily beta in his early forties with receding greying hair and small eyes. He seemed palpably less keen than his wife in our involvement in the case. Then again, if Cas could find his fortune for him, he would probably think us the best thing since fresh bread!

Mrs. Huffington-Brand (I was not invited to 'call her Jenny') told us that dinner would be served shortly, but she hoped we would swiftly get down to work. Cas smiled benignly.

“I have a list of questions for you as regards the case”, he told her, as I took out my notepad to note down her replies. “And do not worry; Winchester never publishes a case without the express permission of those involved, including myself.”

She seemed to relax a little at that reassurance. I could already see myself being torn in this case, partly wanting Cas to succeed and partly hoping he failed so these obnoxious people did not get what they clearly thought they deserved.

“First”, Cas said, “I wish to know what, if anything, has been removed from the house since your late uncle's death.”

“Absolutely nothing”, she said firmly. “The will did make a whole host of unnecessary bequests to servants and the like, but they do not get put into effect until our month is up. Which it very nearly is!”

Cas would have been fully within his rights to point out at this moment that the couple had waited until the last moment before calling him in, but he did not. However, I did notice a tell-tale slight crease in his forehead, a sure sign that he was annoyed but was refraining from comment.

II

“Who is empowered to act as executor?” he asked. “I assumed that, bearing in mind the terms of the will, Mr. Huffington would hardly have appointed your good selves.”

“That imp Stevens from Crampton and Brookes in town”, she said sniffily. “He is far too young for such a great responsibility, but he was the one who drew up this dreadful will. We wanted to challenge it, but my uncle made it so that if we challenged and failed, we would lose even the money for the tiny house.”

She sounded truly indignant that her inconsiderate relative had declined to leave his money to her. I found myself liking the late Josiah Huffington more and more.

“Is Mr. Stevens a partner at his firm?” Cas asked, much to my surprise.

“He is not even of clean birth”, Mrs. Huffington-Brand sneered. “He was adopted by old Mr. Crampton from the orphanage when his own wife could not bear children. And he actually partakes in the local theatre!”

She spat out that last comment as if the unseen Mr. Stevens drowned puppies in his spare time. I bit my lip. Clearly there was no love lost there. 

“There were five non-cash bequests”, Mr. Huffington-Brand cut in. “Stevens got one of them. Josiah's wife Patricia was also into wasting her time with the theatre, and he left all the costumes and other equipment she had amassed over the years to the rapscallion. He also left a choice of whatever twelve bottles of wine Hall, the butler, wanted to take from the cellar.”

“We must look into that, then”, Cas said. “What else, please?”

“For the past two years he allowed Thomas Irwin, who has a flower shop in the town, to use the greenhouse for growing plants in”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said, his tone indicating clear disapproval of this arrangement. “He left the entire contents of the building to the man. He has been allowed in to tend to them, of course, but never left unsupervised.”

“That will take some searching”, Cas frowned. “The other two bequests?”

“Sarah, a maid who had worked here for over twenty years, gets a vanity-box of the late Mrs. Huffington's that she always liked, plus a small monetary bequest of her own”, he said. “And Parsons, his valet who retired six months ago, gets a life tenancy on the small house he is living in with his sister down in Haworth, it to continue if she outlives him. I have to say that the servants have not exactly been overly helpful in our efforts to locate my dear wife's money.”

I wonder why that was, I thought bitchily. The slight twitch at the corner of Cas' mouth told me he was thinking much the same.

“Since you have obviously searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing, we must assume that the money is hidden in a form that has thus far eluded you both”, Cas said thoughtfully. “I shall telegraph my brother Balthazar and see if he can trace any activity in London on your uncle's part over the past year, though I do not hold out much hope there. It seems that he planned everything extremely well.”

“Unless you can work the magic that the doctor here writes so well about, we shall be reduced to living in a hovel”, the lady sniffed, more than a trifle melodramatically, I felt. 

“I shall do my best”, Cas promised. “As soon as I get up tomorrow, I shall thoroughly search his study, then I shall follow up these bequests.”

I suspected that the couple would rather he attempt to search the room by gaslight, but they seemed to accept his decision, and at that moment the bell summoned us to what turned out to be a decidedly indifferent dinner.

+~+~+

I stared at my room in a mixture of shock and disappointment. The Huffington-Brands had either not been told of my inclusion in the case, or they had not cared. Most likely the latter. Whilst Cas had a master suite with, impressively, a canopied four-poster bed, I had what was quite obviously a valet's room off to one side, in which the single bed took up almost half the floor-space! It was pitiful! And matters were not helped when I came into Cas' room and found his sprawling across the bed, enjoying its sheer luxury!

“Have you seen my room?” I groused. “Actually, forget the word 'room'. I think they just put a bed in one of the store-cupboards!”

“My room is acceptable”, he said with a smirk. “Although one can tell that the Huffington-Brands are only employing temporary staff. Still, it will do.”

I pouted. And Cas had a general rule about Not Doing It in other people's private houses unless they truly got on the wrong side of him, which meant I was in for several days of lonely discomfort. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

+~+~+

Cas held true to his word (worse luck!) and spent an hour the following morning searching the study of the late Josiah Huffington. 

“A very thorough man, doctor”, he said to me as he examined the writing-desk. “Did you talk to the servants for me?”

“I did”, I said. “You were right; all the old staff left after the late Mr. Huffington's death, and these are all temporary staff. None of them like the Empress as they call her, but none of them know the servants who they replaced.”

“Not even any gossip”, Cas sighed, closing a drawer in the desk. “And I think we can dismiss Mr. Parsons' property bequest as well.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I spoke to one of the delivery-men”, he explained. “Mr. Josiah did not like his cousin and her husband, but he was a man of strict moral character. He had a reputation for always paying his bills on time, which was highly appreciated in the town. I do not think he would have put them in this situation without leaving the money in the house in one form or another. There is nothing in here, however.”

He straightened up.

“We must look closely at both the greenhouse, and the wine in the cellar”, he said. “I know my wines, so I will take the latter, if you go outside and see if you can find anything.”

“What if the money is hidden in the bottom of a plant-pot?” I suggested.

“If we assume the money is in the form of pearls or other precious stones, then the only hope is if the pot in question looks recently disturbed”, he said. “You should take some gloves. I will check the vanity-box left for Sarah as well.”

I nodded, and set off to my task.

III

By the end of the day were were both tired and dirty, with greenhouse and cellar having proved unyielding of any hidden wealth. Mrs. Huffington-Brand had supplied some of the servants to shake out every single potted plant in the greenhouse, but to no avail. And whilst some of the wines in the cellar were quality ones, none were worth the fortune we were looking for. The couple were rather brusque at dinner, and I could see their attitude was increasingly irking Cas. We were back in our rooms before he spoke.

“Balthazar wired me a reply sooner than I expected”, he said. 

“I know”, I said, surprised. “You told us at dinner.”

“He did mention something rather odd, which I did not bring up at the table”, Cas said. “Mr Josiah Huffington visited a dressmaker in London. A ladies' dressmaker.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“To what end?” I inquired.

“It remains a mystery”, Cas said. “But we have an appointment with the legal-minded Mr. Stevens tomorrow morning, and only two full days before the deadline. Hopefully he can throw some light on matters. You had best retire to your 'store-cupboard'”.

I pouted.

+~+~+

I have to say that my reaction to Mr. Jude Stevens was quite the reverse of that I had towards the Huffington-Brands. He looked even younger than his years – he could not have been much more than twenty - but there was a calm competence about him that I thought would reassure most clients. I sat down alongside my friend and waited to see what he would ask.

And waited. 

Cas seemed lost in thought, for some reason. At last the great detective spoke.

“Mrs. Huffington-Brand does not seem overly enamoured of you, sir.”

The young beta smiled.

“I am, in effect, the man who will probably supervise her being reduced from noble living in a castle to coping with a small house in town”, he said. “Were the roles reversed, I doubt I would be overly happy.”

“You wrote the will for the late Mr. Josiah Huffington?”

“I did, sir. I am sure that his cousin and her husband have fully briefed you on the contents. My client did not seek to keep things from them.”

“Except the whereabouts of his fortune”, Cas said pointedly. 

“It was his money to leave as he wished”, the young man said easily. “I am glad I am not possessed of so much wealth.”

“What would you have done?” Cas asked, to my surprise.

“Sir?”

“Hypothetically”, Cas said. “If you were possessed of a castle and all that wealth, what would you do?”

The young man thought for a moment. 

“I would probably sell most of the castle”, he admitted. “Mr. Josiah mostly lived in a small suite of rooms, his private quarters, in one of the towers, and they were quite commodious. He did not mind people being shown around the rest of the place, provided they did not intrude into his little kingdom, as he called it. The money – I would see my dear adopted father right first, because I owe him everything. Then I would probably invest the remainder for when I marry and have a family of my own.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Cas asked. I wondered at the personal nature his questioning had taken, but the lawyer seemed not to mind. Although he did blush at that question.

“There is a... lady who lives in Settle”, he admitted. “But she comes from money, and although I am fortunate enough for her to return my affections, her father would never countenance such a disparaging match.”

“One can only live in hope”, Cas smiled. “What did you yourself think of the late Mr. Josiah Huffington?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your personal opinion. You had several dealings with the man. I would like to know more of him.”

The clerk thought for a moment.

“He was, in outward appearance, a cold man”, he said, “and sparing with his affections. But he always treated me well, and from something my father said, I have a suspicion that he helped obtain this post for me. And it was his idea to provide for all of his servants, or at least those who deserved it. Above all, he was fair. The wealth he amassed is somewhere in that castle; he would not leave his cousin and her husband an impossible task.”

“Just a difficult one”, Cas smiled.

"He was also superstitious", the clerk continued. "There is an old saying that there would always be a Huffington living there, which he often quoted. I think that was why he got his niece to change her name, though unless she finds his wealth, that will no longer be the case.

Cas stared thoughtfully at the beta, then smiled.

“Good day, sir", he said. "We have already taken up far too much of your precious time.”

He stood and bowed, before sweeping from the room, leaving me trailing in his wake.

+~+~+

We spent the rest of the day sorting through the theatrical costumes that had been bequeathed to Mr. Stevens, but unless the lamp actually had a genie in it, I could not see how a load of old clothes helped solve the case. I covertly rubbed the lamp anyway.

“What is it, o master?”

I yelped, and dropped the lamp on my foot. Cas had materialized right behind me. 

“Don't do that!” I scowled. 

He chuckled, holding up a belt bejewelled with rhinestones.

“Imagine Mrs. Huffington-Brand doing the Dance of the Seven Veils!” he grinned.

“I hate you!” I muttered. “Now I won't even be able to look at her at dinner tonight.”

“You won't have to”, he said. “She and her husband are having a last couple of days out on the estate's money, in London today, then travelling back tomorrow afternoon to see if we have solved the case.”

“Have we?” I asked.

“In a way”, he said. “I have one more question that I should have asked Mr. Stevens earlier, then we have another interview with someone else tomorrow morning, and all should be done. Though I doubt the Huffington-Brands will be overly pleased at my findings.”

My eyes alighted on what looked like several straps of leather, and I picked it up to discover it was apparently some sort of Roman costume, possibly a gladiator. Cas was ferreting around in a chest with his back to me, and I grinned as I imagined the noble gladiator Castiellus, returning home after yet another victory to his fellow gladiator Decanus for some much-needed relief....

I really needed to change my reading matter.

IV

I was relieved that the Huffington-Brands were gone that night, as it meant that I could sleep in Cas' bed. To my surprise and annoyance however, late that evening he said that he had to make an extra call in town to visit the gymnasium, of all places. He would not say why, except that it was important and that he would be about an hour. Sighing, I undressed and went bed without him.

I woke from a rather pleasant dream – possibly. There was a gladiator standing by my bed. A blue-eyed, tousle-headed sweaty gladiator. Had I died and gone to Heaven?

“I saw you looking at that costume earlier, Dean”, he said in the Voice which meant that only one thing was going to be happening in the next few moments. “This costume excited you. I could smell your arousal from across the room.”

I pouted. That was unfair of him. He grinned, and moved into the moonlight from the window, making me whimper at the sight before me. The leather skirt was so short it was borderline indecent, and the top was a single leather strap over his broad, muscular chest. Once more, he was trying to kill me through sex. And once more, I just did not care.

(If I had had any nous left, I would have reminded him at this point about his rule of Not Doing It in other people's private houses. But as most of my blood had left my brain and gone south for the winter, I did not).

He clambered up onto the bed, lifting his skirt so that his hard erection could rub against my hardening one. I groaned at the wonderful scent of sweat and leather, as he rubbed himself slowly against me. I always had a thing for Cas' natural scent, especially when it was exacerbated by physical effort. In what remained of my brain, I realized that this must have been why he had gone to the gymnasium, and I gave silent thanks for such a lover.

“Our hosts will be back tomorrow”, he whispered, and I was so far gone that even the mention of the obnoxious Huffington-Brands could not slow me down. “This may be the last time we ever get to couple in a medieval castle. Dean, I want you in me.”

I could only nod dumbly as he eased himself upright, and positioned himself over my erection. The sneaky bastard must have already prepared himself, for he impaled himself in one swift motion, moaning in pleasure as I ran my hands down his calves and along his leather sandals. Then he was riding me towards orgasm, and I was powerless beneath him, a plaything for his pleasure (though I was not exactly unpleasured myself). Teasingly, he slowed down and I whined in protest, before he suddenly picked up the pace again and tweaked my nipples. I came violently inside him, almost crying at the release, but somehow had the nous to reach round and grab his cock and finish him off, his coming just seconds later. Then as usual he collapsed on top of me, a blissed-out lump of muscle and sinew.

“Enjoyed your history lesson?” he whispered.

My conscience grumbled that I was about to suggest thievery, but as usual I thought with my lower brain.

“You should take that costume with us when we go”, I said. “I think I am going to need more lessons, professor!”

He chuckled darkly, and snuggled up against me.

+~+~+

The following morning we left the house early, and called in at the offices of Crampton and Brookes just after nine o'clock. We were fortunate enough to catch Mr. Stevens, but Cas made me wait outside as he said the question would take barely a minute. When he resumed the cab, he called out, “the station”. 

“What was your question?” I asked plaintively. Cas had woken up still in the gladiator costume and promptly decided it was my turn to ride that morning, so I was still sore. 

“I asked Mr. Stevens exactly when the late Mr. Josiah Huffington made his will”, Cas said. “The latest one was finished two weeks before his death. Did you bring your camera?”

“Yes”, I said. “Is it important?”

“In a way”, he said evasively.

We quickly arrived at the station, and to my surprise (and delight) we caught the local train down the Worth Valley, alighting at the Brontë village of Haworth.

“I promise you some time for sightseeing shortly”, Cas said, “but first, we must pay a call.”

We walked into the village, turning away from the centre and climbing the hill to a small but well-kept little cottage. Cas walked up the path and knocked at the door, which was opened by an elderly lady with grey hair.”

“Miss Parsons”, Cas smiled. “My name is Mr. Castiel Novak. I would like to speak with your brother, if I may.”

She looked at him silently for a moment, then backed away to let him in. I felt instinctively that Cas had found her out in some way, though I knew not how. At the table in the single main room an elderly man sat stiff and alert, clearly having heard my friend's name.

“I do not wish to distress either of you”, Cas said reassuringly, “and provided you deal straight with me, I shall endeavour to keep both of your names out of what is about to happen. However, there is something I would have you confirm for me. When did Mr. Josiah Huffington come to your house?”

The two looked at each other, as if considering whether or not to attempt to bluff their way out of this, but evidently the man decided to make a clean breast of it.

“A week before he passed on”, he said. “Not here,, though; I met him at the station and took him to meet Flo at my brother's house – there's no way the old man could have made our hill. I took him back to the castle afterwards; the whole trip exhausted him.”

“He asked you to do something for him”, Cas said. “Was it all legal and above board?”

“Yes”, the man said with a sigh. “He had a lawyer come in from Leeds when those two harpies were away in York for a day, and draw the whole thing up legal-like. All Flo and I had to do was sign it.”

“Where is it?” Cas asked.

The woman hesitated only briefly before crossing to a huge dresser, taking a key from her pocket and unlocking a small drawer. She extracted what was clearly a will, and handed it to Cas.

“The true last will and testament which does, I am sure, honour the late Mr. Josiah's requests”, Cas said. “Thank you both. It has been a most interesting case.”

He bowed and left the room, and I followed him. 

+~+~+

We lunched at a local tavern and I did get to see several of the great authoresses' landmarks, including the Parsonage. I did not try to get Cas to tell me what he knew, for I knew full well he would do so in his own good time. We returned to Keighley and Armsworth Castle to find the Huffington-Brands waiting for us.

“Well?” Mrs. Huffington-Brand demanded. I decided that yes, it was possible to like her even less.

V

“I regret to say that my initial evaluation was incorrect”, Cas said. “It is my opinion that the wealth you were seeking was indeed shipped out of the castle before your search began, and that your uncle was merely having a final jest at your expense.”

They both stared at him incredulously.

“And that is it, Mr. Great Detective?” Mr. Huffington-Brand scoffed. “Hah! Well, we certainly shan't be paying your bill!”

“There will be no bill”, Cas said. “A few days of Yorkshire air has been most refreshing. Come, doctor. Let us pack, and we should be able to catch the last train of the day.”

+~+~+

“So Mr. Josiah Huffington lied”, I smiled, as we sat back having made the train with less than five minutes to spare. “But what was the reason for the second will?”

“The new will changed one very important thing”, Cas said. “It left the castle and estate not to the town, but to someone else.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Mr. Jude Stevens.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But why?” I asked. “And why did Mr. Huffington lie about the wealth?”

“He did not lie”, Cas said airily. “I lied. The money is still in the castle, albeit not for long.”

I gaped. 

“Where?” I demanded. He turned to me.

“Do you remember the costume for the Dance of the Seven Veils?” he asked.

Of course I did, though I didn't want to. I nodded, lest my voice betray me. Cas grinned.

“Those rhinestones were not rhinestones”, he said quietly. 

I swallowed hard. That costume must have had about a hundred stones in it, and if they were all real..... it was worth a fortune. 

“Mr. Josiah knew how his nephew and niece looked down on Mr. Stevens and his theatrical group”, Cas said. “They would never think of looking at mere actors' clothes. Our young friend gets the wealth – and more besides.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you remember how, when we met Mr. Stevens, I paused for a time before asking him questions?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, I said.

“I was trying to recall as to why he looked vaguely familiar”, Cas said. “When we went back to the castle, I knew why, the minute we stood before the huge portrait of Mr. Josiah Huffington in the main hall.”

I stared, as the pieces finally fell into place.

“He is the old man's son!” I gasped. Cas nodded.

“I dare say Mr. Josiah's own father was instrumental in forcing him to leave his illegitimate son at the orphanage”, Cas said. “But a father's love cannot be so easily overcome. Once his own father had passed on, Mr. Josiah brought Stevens into the area, secured a surrogate father for him, and did everything he could to make his life easier. He could have left everything to him directly, but because his niece and nephew were so unpleasant, he took the chance to torment them by holding out the prospect of riches before them, knowing they would never find them.”

“But they brought you onto the case”, I pointed out.

“And had they been less obnoxious, I might have rewarded them with at least the jewels”, Cas said. “But a life in a small house in town will do them both the world of good. Plus, Mr. Stevens now has the wherewithal to pursue the lady of his dreams. And the bloodline of the Huffingtons shall, as the people believe, continue at the castle.”

“Yet they may put it about that you failed”, I objected.

“Publish their own relative poverty?” Cas said with a laugh. “No. I think not. Though you may choose not to publish this case yourself, my friend, otherwise the British public may start to think I am actually fallible!”

“More likely to think you're actually modest!” I smiled.

He swatted at me, as our train rumbled back towards London. I smiled at him, and thought of a certain leather costume stashed safely in his bag.

I did not know then that his bag also contained a number of long veils.......

+~+~+

No rest for the good or the wicked, as Cas was plunged almost straight into a case of financial malpractice in the capital....


	5. Case 47: Bad Boys (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk'.

I

My beloved Cas had to deal with people from all strata of society in his job as a detective, as the recent cases in Yorkshire had demonstrated. I had hoped that we would have time for him to fully recuperate after our trips to the North, but just a few days after our return, he was asked to investigate a case of financial chicanery, whose outcome shook the City of London to its very core.

The man currently seated in the fireside chair at 221B was Mr. Thomas Good, co-owner of what was then the most well-known firm of stockbrokers in the City of London. It was said that he and his elder twin brothers, Robert and Richard, knew enough financial secrets to bring the whole City crashing down around them; indeed, when the newspapers mentioned ‘The Good Boys’, everyone who read it knew exactly to whom they were alluding. Though Mr. Thomas Good currently looked far from the City high-flyer who featured regularly across the financial pages of the Times. Indeed, he looked decidedly anxious.  
   
“Poor Robert is beside himself with worry”, he said, wringing his hands. “He is certain that the whole sorry business is all his fault. And the calamity has quite set Richard’s recovery back weeks, at least.”  
   
Cas smiled, and poured the man a whisky.  
   
“Why not start at the beginning, sir?” he said gently. “If we have all the facts, then maybe the doctor and I can help you.”  
   
The man seemed to pull himself together, albeit with an effort. He was an alpha in his early forties, well-kempt if somewhat gaunt, with greying hair and a moustache. He sighed unhappily.  
   
“I am sure you know a little of my family circumstances”, he began. “Richard's and Robert's father William Good, an excellent stockbroker in his own right, married young, and his wife May died giving birth to my alpha twin brothers. My father was Mr. Trevor Weeks, who died in a train crash when I was fourteen. My mother Eunice was left to raise me alone, and a friend recommended my father to help her with his investments. They married two years later, and I have had nothing but love and respect from my new family. My step-father retired to the country last year, leaving his business to the three of us.”  
   
I nodded. I knew most of this from the social pages that I sometimes read. Only once in a while, unlike what a certain blue-eyed genius claimed!

“Was there not a fourth brother at one point?” I asked. Cas shot me a sharp look, and our guest blushed horribly.

“William tried to adopt a young boy shortly before he met Eunice”, he admitted. “His name was Matthew, Price if I recall, an omega. But it did not work out well. The boy tended towards violence, and he had to be returned to the orphanage after only a few weeks. I have of course never met him myself.”

“I see”, Cas said thoughtfully. “Pray continue.”  
   
“Eight months ago Richard fell ill, and the doctor proscribed complete bed-rest”, our guest went on. “It was an exceptionally busy time for us, and his absence was decidedly awkward, as we needed three men at the top of the company to share the heavy workload. We tried one other man in the post, but he proved unsatisfactory, being more concerned with the needs of his fiancée than those of the company.”  
   
“Shocking!” I muttered. Cas shot me a warning look, suspecting I was being sarcastic, but I stared innocently back at him. He smiled at me.  
   
“That is today's youth”, our guest sighed. “Then a friend of Robert's recommended a man to us. It was very timely; Richard had just had a slight relapse, and Robert insisted on sending him to the country to recuperate. The man’s name was Mr. Malachi Eastwood, and he did indeed prove most useful.”  
   
“And now he has run off with your funds”, Cas said bluntly.  
   
I feared for a moment that our guest was going to faint. He stared at Cas as if he could not believe what he was hearing.  
   
“How could you know that?” he demanded eventually.  
   
“Elementary, my dear sir”, Cas smiled. “You placed this man in a position of trust, and he abused it. You and your brothers are known for guarding your secrets fiercely, which is one reason why your company is so successful, yet you came to me for help. How serious is it?”  
   
Our guest put his head in his hands.  
   
“If we cannot find the man within seven days, it will be the ruination of the entire company”, he said. “Robert says that we can dissolve the company before this happens, which will preserve our own financial situations to some extent, but all the people who invest with us will be ruined!”  
   
Cas looked at him shrewdly.  
   
“Precisely what do you mean by ‘to some extent’?” he asked.  
   
“Richard is the legal expert of us three”, our guest explained, “and the company is set up in such a way that the three of us get first call on any assets if there is a crash. Financially, we would be virtually unaffected. But all those people trusted me, Mr. Novak, and I let them down! I can never hold my head up in public again!”  
   
He seemed to be verging on the hysterical. I thought of my own few investments, and felt more for the people who relied on men like this than the man himself, even if he did 'feel' for them. At least he would have all that money to help him through it, I thought bitterly. The rich always looked after themselves first.  
   
“Calm down”, Cas said firmly. “Now, why do you say seven days? What happens at that time that is so important?”  
   
I handed Mr. Good another whisky, which he downed quickly.  
   
“The bonds stolen by Mr. Eastwood were signed into his and Robert’s joint names”, he explained. “He can cash them himself only after eight days have elapsed from the transfer. Since that was yesterday, we have seven days remaining to find him. Unfortunately he can cash them anywhere in the British Empire, so I can but presume he has left the country.”

“Could he not cash them elsewhere?” Cas asked.

“He could”, our guest admitted, “but he would receive only a fraction of their true value if he did so. I believe that it would be far easier for him to hide out for just one week, possibly using it to travel to some far-flung colony or remote island territory.”  
   
Cas thought for a moment.  
   
“Please tell me a little about your and your brothers’ working arrangements", he said at last. “I would like to know exactly where this Mr. Eastwood fitted into the general scheme of things before you continue with your fascinating tale.”  
   
Our guest nodded.  
   
“Richard and Robert run the main office, in the City itself”, he explained. “I run a smaller office for our richer clients in the West End, not far from Berkeley Square, where I live. Mr. Eastwood worked in Richard’s office, although he did come over to my building with documents from time to time. Though I hardly ever met him.”  
   
“Why not?” I asked, surprised.  
   
”My office is mostly so we can boast a business address in the West End”, our visitor explained. “The sort of clients I serve mostly expect me to visit them in their own houses, so I am out more often that not, but some enjoy the experience of attending an office, I suspect so they can boast about it to their friends. And he always came first thing in the morning. I am not exactly a morning person, I must admit.”  
   
Like someone else I know, I thought with a smile. Then I realized Cas was looking sharply at me, and blushed.  
   
“What did you think of him?” Cas asked, giving me a look that said quite clearly that we would be discussing matters later. I was glad that I was sat at the table, so certain physical reactions were hidden from them both. And that it was a loose trousers day!  
   
“I beg your pardon?” Our guest looked surprised.  
   
“What was your opinion of the man?” Cas reiterated. “So far he is little more than a name to us. Describe him, if you will.”

Our guest hesitated.

“He was never rude to me”, he said, as if he was picking his words carefully, “but on the few occasions that we met, I got the impression that he did not really wish to talk. Though as he had several letters for clients to deliver as well as coming to my office, I suppose that was natural enough. Our clients pay handsomely enough that they become irritable if a missive arrives just five minutes after they think it should!”  
   
“His physical appearance”, Cas prompted.  
   
“He is a little younger than me, very well-turned out and uses a walking-stick which, I think, is more affectation than actual need. Dark hair, which be greying as I think it is dyed; I noticed a stain on his collar one time, which I know can be caused by the use of certain chemicals on the hair. He has a full beard, which my secretary always complained looked rather sinister. He wears those coloured spectacles that they proscribe for certain eye conditions nowadays. And, if I may be so bold, he smelt.”

“Alcohol?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Good shook his head.

“He must have used one of those colognes that some men think are socially acceptable”, he said sniffily. “Must have bathed in the stuff! Ivory soap has always been good enough for me!”  
   
Cas smiled for some reason. He knew something from that, though Lord alone knows what.

II

“You are very observant, sir”, he said.

“I deal with large sums of money, and have to make judgements on whether to trust people very quickly”, he explained. “I sometimes find that the little things are very revealing.”

“Does he also have a birthmark?” Cas asked. Our guest looked at him in surprise.

“I thought you said you did not know him”, he said, a little surprised. “Yes, a small but distinctive one, on his jaw. How did you know that?”

“It seemed quite probable”, Cas said with a knowing smile. “Tell me, does your brother Robert know you have come here today?”  
  
“No”, the man said. “He has gone down to the country to visit Richard. The two of them were always very close, and I know Robert feels his twin’s illness deeply.”

“Are they identical twins?” I asked.

“No”, he said, “just fraternal.”  
  
“Would it be impertinent of me to ask where in the country your sick brother has retreated to?” Cas asked.  
  
“Arconium House, Ross-on-Wye, in the county of Herefordshire. It is Robert's country retreat. He said in a telegram that I received just before leaving that Richard was a lot better, and that he hopes he will be well enough to travel soon.”  
  
“When does Mr. Robert Good return to the capital?” Cas asked.  
  
“Late tomorrow”, our guest said, sounding uneasy. “Mr. Novak, why all these questions about my brothers? You cannot think…..”  
  
“Clearly this Mr. Eastwood targeted your firm”, Cas said. “He took advantage of your brother Richard’s illness to gain access, then made himself trustworthy enough to a point where he had access to a large sum of money. By the by, why was he entrusted with so much money so soon after starting?”  
  
That seemed to upset our guest even more. He blushed fiercely.  
  
“That was partly my fault”, he admitted. Robert and I were supposed to sign the bonds when they came in one Tuesday, but I overindulged at his house the night before, and I was off work for two whole days. We were forced to let Mr. Eastwood sign, otherwise we would have lost the chance to have them.”  
  
“You seem to have lost rather more than that”, Cas observed. “You said earlier that this Mr. Eastwood worked at your brother’s office in the City. Do you have access to that office?”  
  
“Of course”, Mr. Good said, clearly surprised at the question.  
  
“I would very much like to see where this man worked”, Cas said. “Would it be possible for you to take us there today?”  
  
“If you think it would help solve the case, I would be delighted”, the man said.  
  
“Excellent!” Cas smiled. “We shall partake of the refreshment provided by the excellent Mrs. Harvelle, then we shall take a cab to the scene of the crime!”  
  
+~+~+  
  
The main offices of Good Bros, Stockbrokers was a building not dissimilar to 221B, the only exterior difference being a small, unobtrusive plaque on the outside proclaiming the company name. On the other hand, with fame like theirs, any ostentation would have been superfluous. Mr. Good unlocked the front door and bade us enter.  
  
“Mr. Eastwood had his office on the second floor”, he explained. “Like most firms, we adopted what I believe is called the ‘Strata Approach’, namely the more important the clients are, the higher they go in the building.”  
  
I could see what he meant by the state of the first floor, which was plain if serviceable. When we mounted the stairs to the second floor I noted at once a rise in standing; the walls were dressed with a better quality paper, and the furniture was of much higher standard, though clearly also not the best. 

Mr. Good unlocked a small side-door and bade us enter the office of the absconding clerk. I stared around the room for some time before I realized what was missing. There were no personal touches; photos, mementos or anything.  
  
“Did Mr. Eastwood not have a personal life?” I mused out loud. Cas smiled at me, and I knew instinctively I had asked a good question. Though of course, I had no idea why.  
  
“He was given up for adoption by his parents, and struggled to make ends meet until he was about fifteen”, Mr. Good told us. “He was very open about it at his interview, Robert told me, although naturally he checked up on him thoroughly. At that age his natural father died, and bequeathed a moderate allowance to him, enough to secure a small place in London and for him to seek work as a clerk. He worked for two years at Barlow, Goldstein and Ricks before being forced to leave.”  
  
“Why?” Cas asked at once. Our host reddened.  
  
“Mr. Barlow’s daughter, Ivy”, he said. “She, I believe the colloquialism is, ‘tipped her hat’ at him, and he rejected her advances. He is not the first clerk to leave that firm under such circumstances; indeed, he took the precaution of telling them he was emigrating.”  
  
“A little extreme”, I chuckled.  
  
“Miss Ivy Barlow pursued the last clerk even after he left”, Mr. Good said wryly. “I believe he currently resides somewhere in the Far North of Scotland!”  
  
Cas smiled, and set about searching the room, though what he hoped to find, I could only begin to guess. Mr. Good took the opportunity to show me the top floor which, as I had predicted, was markedly opulent. After about half an hour we were joined by the great detective, who let out a sigh.  
  
“No hope then?” Mr. Good asked tentatively. Cas looked at him in surprise.  
  
“Oh, I already know where Mr. Eastwood is”, he said airily.  
  
“What?” Mr. Good almost yelled.  
  
“Calm down, sir”, Cas smiled. “It is, after all, fairly obvious.”  
  
“How?” I demanded, narrowly beating our host to the same question.  
  
Cas reached into his pocket and produced a handful of items. I recognized a tube of some sort of glue, a bottle of cologne, a small snuff-box and something that looked suspiciously like two make-up pens of the types used by ladies.  
  
“These tell me exactly where Mr. Eastwood is currently residing”, Cas said cheerfully. “Indeed, were your brother not planning to return tomorrow, I would be tempted to go down to Herefordshire and tell him the good news.”  
  
“I shall send him a telegram”, Mr. Good said.  
  
“I would rather you refrain from so doing”, Cas said. At our host's surprised expression, he continued, “we do not wish to upset him by alerting him of my involvement before, as they say, the bird is in the bag. I do not say he would say anything, but doubtless he has servants there, and it is always a possibility that your Mr. Eastwood, playing as he is for high stakes, may have secured the assistance of one of them.”  
  
“I shall put myself in your hands, Mr. Novak”, Mr. Good smiled.  
  
“Excellent!” Cas said. “Tell me, Mr. Good, where do you yourself usually go to recuperate at stressful times like these?”  
  
The man looked surprised.  
  
“I visit my Aunt Ophelia's house in Mablethorpe”, he said. “She is the only member of my natural family I have contact with. She runs a bed and breakfast establishment called Vermont House.”  
  
“The Lincolnshire coast is certainly bracing at this time of year”, Cas smiled. “Tell me, what will your brother most likely do on his return to the capital?”  
  
The man thought for a moment.  
  
“He has a house in Orpington, in the county of Kent”, he said. “I dare say he will head straight there; it is served by fast trains from the city.”  
  
“Then that is where we shall see the conclusion to this fascinating case”, Cas beamed. “If you care to provide us with your card, Mr. Good, I shall telegraph you either this evening or tomorrow with further details. But do not worry. The bonds are safe enough.”  
  
I could see the man looked slightly dubious, but he handed over his card, and Cas ushered me from the room.

III

I had another surgery function that evening, a dinner at the Isleworths. It should have been one of the less trying of such occasions; Major-General Randolph Isleworth was retired from the army and lived off Euston Square, and he and his wife were both pleasant enough. However, it turned out that his two teenage daughters were home from college, and they spent the whole evening pestering me about my stories of Cas, both the things I wrote and the things that, bearing in mind my Victorian audience, I dared not write. I returned home exhausted by their constant chatter, hoping fervently that neither of them ever got ill any time in the future.

I had only loosened my tie when I crashed through the door of our Baker Street rooms, remembering rather too late that Cas might have gone to bed by this time. Fortunately he was sat writing at the table, and looked up as I crossed the room to my door.

“Did your evening not go well?” he inquired.

“Next time, I am checking to see that those girls are safely away at college!” I groused. “I swear, they did not seem to need to draw breath!”

He chuckled, put his pen down and stood up. I belatedly realized that he was wearing just his blue dressing-gown, and swallowed nervously.

“We need to get you out of those restricting clothes”, he growled in the Voice that told me what was coming shortly to these rooms. I nodded dumbly, and all but fell into my room, managing to get just my shoes off before he was in with me. I was already half-hard, and I had been home less than a minute!

He sidled up to in front of me, and began to slowly unbuckle my shirt, one button at a time, pausing between each to run his hand up my jaw. I leaned into his touch, craving it like my life depended on it. At times like this I had no pride; I just wanted my alpha. He finally slid the shirt off, and hoisted my vest over my head, then rubbed his hands across my chest, teasing my nipples.

“Cas!” I grunted, wanting him to get down to where the action was. He chuckled darkly.

“Patience is a virtue, Dean”, he reprimanded. 

“Well, if you don't get a move on, this performance is going to 'come' to a premature end”, I complained. He sniggered at me (the bastard!), but began to slowly unbuckle my belt, before sliding my trousers and underwear to the floor. But before I could step out of them he was behind me, and those clever fingers at my backside made me forget what I was doing.

“The mirror”, Cas whispered in my ear.

I managed to focus enough to look across at my dressing-mirror, a full-length one by the door. I was standing there in my socks, with my trousers and pants around my feet, looking totally and utterly debauched whilst Cas was slowly fingering me open. 

I was one lucky son of a......

Without warning he was suddenly pushing into me. I had not even felt him at my entrance, but that python of his was inside me, heading straight for my prostate. I may have wished that this moment could have lasted forever, but I was thirty-six years old, and I was coming violently and almost painfully as he worked away inside me, coming himself almost immediately. Somehow he managed to get me out of my pooled lower clothing and into the bed whilst still inside me, and the last thing I felt as I lost consciousness was an eternal gratitude that I had this man in my life. 

And in me.

+~+~+  
  
The following day, we had an excellent combined breakfast and dinner courtesy of the excellent Mrs. Harvelle, and around twelve we took a cab to London Bridge Station, where we met Mr. Thomas Good. Cas refused to satisfy either of our curiosities, but purchased three first-class return tickets to Orpington, and ushered us onto the platform. A short train ride and even shorter cab journey later, and we were walking up the drive of Dioscuri House, where we found the inimitable form of Sergeant Henriksen (Cas had helped him out with one or two trifling cases recently, but nothing of great import) waiting for us. He introduced us to the local sergeant, a tall bluff man called Wilson, and I noted there were several of the latter’s men standing to one side. I wondered that Cas had not asked me to bring my own gun.  
  
A maid ushered us into the house, and we sat in the lounge, awaiting the return of Mr. Robert Good. Cas poked around the room for a while, whilst I and Mr. Good discussed events of the day. Then finally, after what seemed an interminable wait, we heard the sound of someone in the corridor outside, and footsteps approaching the room. Two sets of footsteps.  
  
Two men stepped through the door, and I could tell at once that they were the Good twins, even though they were as stated not identical. The taller man frowned when he saw us.  
  
“Thomas”, he said, a warning note in his voice. “What is the meaning of this?”  
  
Cas stepped forward.  
  
“Mr. Robert Good?” he asked.  
  
“That depends on who is asking”, the tall man said suspiciously. “Who the blazes are you?”  
  
“Mr. Castiel Novak, at your service.”  
  
There was no mistaking it. The man definitely went pale, and glared at his younger sibling.  
  
“What have you done, Thomas?” he asked, his voice harsh.  
  
“Your brother employed me to find the missing Mr. Malachi Eastwood”, Cas said with a smile. “I have done so.”

“Where is he?” Thomas Good demanded at once.

IV

Cas had moved round to stand behind Mr. Richard Good. Before the man could react, Cas had slipped on a pair of handcuffs, and was holding a false beard and a pair of spectacles up just in front of the man's frightened face. Mr. Thomas gasped in recognition.  
  
“Mr. Good, doctor, may I introduce the missing 'Mr. Malachi Eastwood'. And gentlemen, the house is surrounded by policemen, who will be here any moment to escort the two of you to somewhere a little less salubrious than this estimable abode.”  
  
+~+~+  
  
It was some time later. We had left Dioscuri House, Sergeant Henriksen promising to call and collect Mr. Thomas Good’s statement at his London offices the following day at a time when he would not be expecting any clients. Once we were safely ensconced on our train back to London, our client not unnaturally demanded answers. Cas smiled.  
  
“The first thing that struck me was, cui bono? Who actually benefited from the crime, apart from the renegade Mr. Eastwood? Neither you nor your brothers would suffer, but that is not the same thing at all. So I asked myself, what if Mr. Eastwood was merely a charade, an actor whose main aim was to secure those bonds? But that would mean he had to be in the employ of one of you, as that person would then get not only their share of the business but the bonds as well; a double portion.”  
  
“Mr. Richard Good’s illness struck me as particularly timely, though at the time I considered merely that his brother was getting him out of the way. It was your brother Robert who gave you mild food poisoning at the dinner that evening, so ‘Mr. Eastwood’ had to stand in for you and sign for the bonds. Then, the fact that ‘Mr. Eastwood' seemed to be taking measures to avoid you, sir, suggested he was fearful that he might be recognized, though he had to let you see him a few times to establish his character, so to speak.”  
  
Cas paused for breath.  
  
“Then, of course, there were the five clues in his room.”  
  
“I do not see how that helped”, Mr. Good complained. “Although I did wonder at the white powder residue on the outside of the snuff-box. I am sure my brother did not partake of such things.”  
  
“He does not”, Cas smiled. “The box contained talcum powder, to make his skin more pale.”  
  
“And the other items?” I asked.

“They were a barrage of small things to mark differences between the fake 'Mr. Eastwood' and your brother Richard”, Cas explained. “The cleverest one, in my humble opinion, was the cologne. People are not aware just how important the scent of smell is for humans. That someone of your new clerk's age and appearance used such a product seemed strange, for in reality it was for when he met you. You smelt it, and it subconsciously reinforced the differences between your brother and the clerk. Otherwise your mind may have worked to notice that they were of the same height and physical appearance.”

“What about the glue?” Mr. Good asked.

“To adhere the fake beard”, Cas said. “There were also a small number of tiny hairs in one of the draws which, when Henriksen comes to examine them, will be shown to be from the fake beard. I have no doubt that that particular addition was burnt in a fire in Herefordshire, once there was no longer any need for 'Mr. Eastwood'.”

“And the make-up pens?” I asked.

“One for the birthmark”, Cas said. “I deduced such a mark because you would notice it, and it would further separate the two men in your mind. The other was to make the clerk look more like my friend the doctor, by adding freckles to his skin. You did not state those in your description, Mr Good, yet your brother has none, so it further reinforced the difference between the two men.”  
  
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Novak”, our client said with a smile. “And all my clients – presuming they still want to employ a firm for whom two-thirds of its owners are now criminals – they owe you a debt of thanks for saving their financial souls.”  
  
Cas smiled at him, as the train rumbled over the viaducts and into the city.

+~+~+

Postscript: The blow to Good Bros. from the ensuing publicity was a heavy one, and I am sure (although he never confirmed it) that Cas persuaded his father to steer several prominent clients to the form to help tide them over. Both Richard and Robert Good were sent to jail for a long time, and when they emerged many years later, they had the belated decency to emigrate to South Africa, from where they were never heard of again. 

+~+~+

In our next case, Cas showed that he could exhibit a markedly cruel streak when provoked.....


	6. Case 48: It's A Terrible Life (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Naval Treaty'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Two-Power Rule mentioned herein was aimed at ensuring Britannia continued to rule the waves, by maintaining ten per cent more ships that the next two naval powers. The recent sharp advances in naval technology was making this difficult to maintain.

I

One of the criticisms I received concerning my original stories (apart from the lack of detail about my closeness to Cas, which I presume to have more than remedied by now) was that I would tantalize the public with hints of unpublished cases, only to never go into detail about them. I am resolved to try to avoid such a thing this time round, but must bend that rule to describe the events following our encounter with the 'Bad Goods'. Cas had a short but important case involving a figure fairly high up in the British political establishment, and whilst he solved it easily enough, it again involved frequent meetings with his brother Balthazar, which always took it out of him. The pressure on him since our return from the Continent had been constant, and my impression that he was overdoing things grew steadily.

That impression became a certainty when I returned one afternoon to find a private carriage drawn up outside 221B. That and the look of disapproval on our landlady's face when I entered confirmed my worst fears; the dreaded Balthazar had called. I was about to mount and discover the worst, when to my surprise Mrs. Harvelle beckoned me into her private rooms. Somewhat unnerved, I followed. Once we were inside, she closed the door firmly and bade me sit down.

“Doctor”, she began, “I am worried about our Castiel.”

I smiled at her use of the first person plural. Cas seemed to always evoke one of two reactions from the female gender, either a wish to mother him from older ladies, or an eyeing up as a potential partner (and the latter often from those who were already married!) from those closer to his age. I much preferred the former. 

“I have noticed he seems a little tired of late”, I said. “I presume his brother is here?”

She pursed her lips as if tasting something foul.

“That ‘person’” (I could hear the quotation marks) “plays far too much on our dear Castiel’s generous nature”, she said, sounding almost venomous in her clear dislike of our visitor. “He is a Bad Influence. But the reason I called you in was because I found Castiel asleep when I went up this afternoon.”

“An afternoon nap is not unusual, Mrs. Harvelle”, I observed mildly.

“I know”, she said, “but he never used to take them until of late. This is the third time since you came back from the Continent that I have found him in that state, and on two occasions it looked as if he had fallen asleep whilst reading something, judging from the fallen books on the floor. He needs taking much better care of.”

She looked at me pointedly, as if trying to communicate something to me. The woman would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to know exactly what sort of relationship we really had, and she was far from any of those things. She also, as I have mentioned, owned a rifle.

“I had better go up and see if he is all right”, I said, standing up. “I shall watch him more closely in future, Mrs. Harvelle, I promise.”

She looked at me again, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew rather more of my inner feelings for my friend than I would have liked. But she said nothing more, and I thankfully made my escape.

+~+~+

I knew by this time that Mr. Balthazar Novak was fully aware that I was not overly fond of him (and that was putting it mildly), for he looked almost defensive when I entered the room. I looked closely at my friend, and noted that he did indeed look both tired and a little run-down. I made a mental note that I would find a way to get him some rest, after whatever his brother was here to demand of him. I only hoped that it was important.

Cas' brother slouched back in the fireside chair.

“Now that your precious doctor friend is here”, he said, sounding more than a little put out, “I can finally begin.”

It warmed me that Cas had made his brother wait for my return, but I hid it by turning to my desk for my notebook and pen, before taking my seat at the table. Mr. Balthazar Novak eyed me sharply, clearly resenting my presence but knowing he had no way of avoiding it. And that made me feel even better, though I managed to refrain from openly smirking.

Much.

“This is going to sound bizarre, even by the standards of your cases, Castiel”, our visitor began, “but I need your help to trace a lost dog.”

I froze in mid-writing, wondering if I had heard that correctly. Cas, of course, remained unperturbed.

“I presume there is a reason for such an unusual request?” he said levelly.

His brother nodded.

“It is a long story”, he said, sitting back. “It goes back to the government’s purchase of the Khedive’s shares in the Suez Canal in 'Seventy-Five which, as I am sure you both remember, did not go down well with our Gallic cousins across the Channel.”

“Like a lead baguette”, I muttered. Cas smiled at that.

“We were fortunate that the French were still reeling from seeing Prussian troops marching through Paris a few short years before”, Balthazar went on. “Since then, the three Great Powers of Western Europe have played a strange dance; France and Great Britain have edged steadily closer, whilst Germany has been doing its best to force them apart. Another Franco-German war would be disastrous if, as is likely, the Germans won, for they could then take the industrial north-east of their old enemy, crippling that country, and they would be a significantly larger power – on the Continent at least – than ourselves. Worse, they might even try to drag Belgium in and seize the Scheldt.”

“Do you think such a war is likely?” I asked dubiously. Great Britain was a guarantor of Belgium's independence because of the huge natural bay which offered the perfect base for any invasion of the British Isles, though whilst Britannia still ruled the waves, that was clearly off the cards.

“I think it is almost certain”, Balthazar said. “The new German emperor may be our dear Queen’s son-in-law but he is not long for this world, and his son and heir William is extremely militaristic. He is Frederick the Great all over again!”

“So how does a lost dog come into all this?” I asked.

“We are currently negotiating a new settlement with the French over the Suez Canal”, our guest sighed. “It is not going well. There is a strong faction in Paris that resents the fact that whilst they built the canal which we were against, it is now our influence that is strongest in the area. Which is unfortunate, because as well as the negotiations that are public, we are also dealing privately with the French too.”

He glanced across at me. I did not immediately guess why, but Cas surprised me by actually growling at his brother.

“If you utter one single word about Winchester that questions either his trustworthiness or his patriotism”, he almost snarled, “I shall physically remove you from this room! And take great pleasure in so doing!”

I was quietly pleased that Mr. Balthazar Novak actually recoiled from his brother’s anger. Cas very rarely lost his temper, but he could be scary when roused. Or aroused. I shifted slightly in my chair.

“I am sure he is both trustworthy and patriotic”, our guest said, rather quickly. “In addition to the public talks between the prime ministers of both countries, a private deal is being struck. It is not just the Germans. Rumours are that the Russians are looking to massively increase the size of their navy, and under the Two-Power Rule, the British economy would find it hard to keep ahead. Plus there are rumours of a Franco-Russian alliance to worry about, which might mean we could find ourselves losing control of the seas if we and the French found ourselves on opposite sides in a future war.”

“That is unlikely, surely?” I asked. “Not with the threat from Germany.”

“Hence we are seeking to tale the French out of the equation”, Balthazar Novak explained. They promise not to enter an arms race with us, and we give them technology, naval protection where we are stronger, and some trade concessions. In any future conflict, their ships could focus on the Mediterranean whilst ours patrol the open seas.”

“Does that not rather leave us dependent on a permanent alliance with the French?” Cas queried. “A little unwise, bearing in mind there are so many points of conflict between our empires?”

His brother groaned.

“And yet despite all that, what’s threatening to bring the whole thing down before it has even been signed?” he moaned. “A bloody Pekingese dog!”

II

We both looked at him, waiting for further explanation.

“The leading French diplomat in the negotiations – the secret ones – is a man called Monsieur Gilles Rosberg. I know, a German-sounding name, but he comes from Lorraine, which the French lost in the recent war. He hates the Germans with a passion – he lost his family home because of them - but unfortunately, we managed to incite his one other passion; his dog, Montmorency. He brought it with him for the last round of talks, and it ran away.”

“If someone saddled me with that for a name, I’d probably run away too”, I muttered. Cas smiled at me.

“They were at Totteridge, the prime minister’s country retreat, last week for discussions about the naval treaty”, our visitor went on. “Monsieur Rosberg, his wife and secretary were staying in a small cottage on the edge of the estate, along with their security detail; we had a British one posted outside as well. He brought the dog to the house for talks, and it was allowed to run free with the other dogs in the garden. And that was when it got away.”

“And the French are prepared to throw away a treaty because of a damn dog?” I asked, astonished.

“I think it is Mademoiselle Rosberg who is the driving force behind it”, our guest explained. “The dog is legally hers, not her husband’s, and she is devastated by the loss. I am not usually terrified by the female gender, but I would not wish to be on the wrong side of her for any length of time. She and her husband have returned to France, but they have insisted that their secretary remain at the cottage and continue searching for the mutt.”

Cas looked up sharply.

“How long does he plan to stay there?” he asked.

“I would presume at least until the Rosbergs call for him, when they return for further talks next week”, his brother said. 

“What day?” Cas asked.

“Thursday.” He looked shrewdly at his younger brother. “Castiel, what do you know?”

I was silently overjoyed to see the look of sheer annoyance on Mr. Balthazar Novak’s face. Whether or not Cas actually did know something, it was always highly pleasurable to see his lounge-lizard of a brother irritated.

“Are the Rosbergs aware of your involvement in the matter?” Cas asked.

“No”, his brother said, “though they may reason that the government might consult you on the matter.”

“Who is this faithful servant, who stays in a foreign country to search for his mistress’ beloved dog?” Cas asked.

“A Monsieur Charles de Bréhaut”, his brother answered. “Not an Anglophile by any stretch of the imagination, but he has been with the family for decades. He was Monsieur Rosberg’s father’s valet before he became the son's secretary.”

“Winchester and I will investigate the case for you, Balthazar”, Cas said with a smile. “We will spend tomorrow and Wednesday morning sorting out matters, and should have some news for you by Wednesday afternoon, if all goes to plan.”

“What are you going to do?” his brother demanded. 

Cas shook his head with another smile.

“Governments have their secrets, and so do consulting detectives”, he said laconically. “We shall not keep you from Her Majesty’s demands for your precious time. Good day.”

Mr. Balthazar Novak looked very much as if he wanted to push the matter, but he surmised (correctly, in my opinion) that he had no chance of getting anything further from his little brother. With a sigh he got up, bowed to us and left. 

“You enjoyed that”, I said in a slightly accusatory tone once we were alone. 

He smiled at me.

“I shall need my faithful friend tomorrow and Wednesday, if the surgery can spare you”, he said, sounding tentative as always. As if I would not always put him before the demands of a load of strangers, for about half of whom paying their doctor's bill was seen as some sort of unnecessary extra. 

“Of course”, I smiled.

+~+~+

The following day we set out after breakfast, but instead of travelling north as I had expected, Cas instructed our driver to head towards the Museum at Kensington.

“I am meeting someone at the Museum”, Cas explained. “A Mr. Frances Galton. He is an extraordinary man.”

I pursed my lips. Whilst I too had read of that man’s many achievements in the fields of mathematics and science, he had also been responsible for formalizing the field of study which he had called eugenics. This seemed to be taking the studies of his half-cousin Mr. Charles Darwin (whose works I did admire) a little too far, and suggesting that we would at some future time be able to breed better people just as over the centuries we had bred better animals. I had an uneasy feeling as a doctor that that was a can of worms Mankind might just regret opening. 

Cas did not ask me to go into the Museum with him, as he said he was only collecting something that he had asked the man for by telegram the day before. Whatever it was, it must have been very small, because he did not emerge encumbered by any additional object that I could see. He called out “King’s Cross Station” to the cab-driver, and we rumbled off northwards again.

“We are going to Totteridge?” I asked. 

To my surprise he shook his head.

“I do not wish our presence to be detected in any way”, he explained. “We shall take the train all the way to Barnet and spend the night there. I am afraid we will have an exceptionally early start tomorrow morning, and there will be an element of criminality involved. If you would rather avoid that part…”

I gave him such a look. He stopped, but I detected the slightest of smiles on his lips. Clearly my determination to stick with him had pleased him.

III

Our inn at Barnet was mediocre, most probably because it was the only one in the area, the station being some distance from the town it purported to serve. I noticed with a little alarm how quickly Cas tired, and how he fell asleep almost before it was dark. I gently eased him under his sheets, removing only his shoes as I did not wish to risk waking him. He sighed in his sleep, and I silently thanked God for bringing this wonderful man into my life.

It was a strange facet of Cas’ character that, whilst he was not a mornings person in any way, shape or form, he could when needed rouse himself at almost any hour. I was still fast asleep when I half-sensed six foot of muscled genius in bed beside me, rubbing his lithe body along my back.

“So much better than an alarm clock”, I muttered sleepily, moving to lay face down and dragging him on top of me. He kissed my shoulder blades and chuckled, rubbing his now fully-erect cock against my crack. The bastard wasn't even preparing me, and I shuddered as I wondered if he was going to try to enter me raw. I stifled a groan; we were not that far from the other rooms at the inn, and Cas always enjoyed me being loud whilst he was taking me. Thank Heaven that 221B had thick walls!

Today – or rather tonight, however, he seemed content just to rub himself off on me. I stifled another groan, and somehow managed to hold him off long enough for me to turn round. He all but fell back on top of me, his cock rubbing happily against mine, as we edged rather than raced towards orgasm. We rarely did this, so I reached down and kissed him lightly on the lips. He responded by forcing his tongue into my mouth, as if he was seeking El Dorado, and increasing his pace at one and the same time. I came almost without thinking, and he followed me immediately, before slumping back down on top of me. I wondered if he was going to take another nap – he sometimes did if we coupled at times other than before going to bed – but with a resigned sigh he levered himself up off me, our combined come sticking to both our chests. 

“Come, Dean”, he smiled. “There’s breaking and entering to be done. Or at least breaking.”

I managed to pull myself together, had a quick wash down, got my clothes on and followed my friend silently. 

About the only good part about our choice of resting-place was that it had a back staircase, and we were able to leave undetected. It was a two mile walk to our destination, one of the several country houses of the then-prime minister, the Marquess of Salisbury. The road from Barnet ran through the village, crossing its main road to run right up to the main gates. Cas gestured to me to follow him along the road running east.

“I doubt anyone will be up”, he said, “but I would rather avoid even the slightest risk of detection. Not when the security of empires is at stake.”

I nodded, and followed him round for half a mile until we found a place where the wall had degraded somewhat. We made it safely into the grounds, and I could immediately see the huge bulk of the main house silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Cas led me off down a side-path; clearly he knew his way around the place. 

We finally came to what seemed to be our destination, a small cottage set by a door in the wall.

“This used to be another gatehouse”, Cas explained in a whisper, “but the Cecils had it closed up. This is where Monsieur de Bréhaut resides.”

“You think that he kidnapped the dog?” I asked.

Cas smiled, and I saw his teeth glint in the moonlight. Then he produced a small tube, and applied its contents to the door hinges.

“Oil, to prevent squeaking”, he explained.

Once he had finished, he replaced the tube and pulled out a lock-pick, with which he easily forced the simple lock. He then opened the door about a foot, before exchanging the lock-pick for what looked like a small, silver whistle. At least I thought it was a whistle, but when he blew it, nothing happened.

“Huh?” I whispered, erudite as ever.

He put his finger to his lips and smiled knowingly at me. I was puzzled – until I heard the patter of tiny paws approaching the gap in the window, and a small scruffy rug of a dog squeezed through the gap. Cas immediately offered it a biscuit, which the dog sniffed warily at before accepting. The detective scooped the happy dog up into his hand, softly pulled the door to and moved swiftly down the path, with me following.

+~+~+

The following day, I discovered just how cruel Cas could be when provoked. It proved to be an incredibly painful lesson. And this time, not for me.

We met in a room at a hotel owned by the Novaks, and I knew that Cas had already smuggled the dog into the adjoining room, where it had a plentiful supply of food. He had even had a vet check it over, to confirm it had survived its ordeal unharmed. We were to meet Monsieur Gilles Rosberg here, and presumably reunite him with his lost dog. 

I cannot say that I was favourably impressed by the French diplomat. My mind sprung back that old Napoleonic joke about the best place to hide anything from a Frenchman was under a bar of soap, because Monsieur Rosberg had gone to the other extreme; his cologne was so strong, I positively reeled back on meeting him. I was sure the flowers in the vase on the table were wilting!

“You have found dear Montmorency?” he demanded at once. His English was impeccable, with barely a hint of his native accent.

“I have”, Cas smiled. “Safe and sound, and none the worse for his ordeal.”

The Frenchman hesitated.

“And the people who put him through this?” he asked. “You have caught them?”

Cas smiled knowingly.

“They will most definitely get what is coming to them”, he said.

The Frenchman smiled back. Cas' smile suddenly vanished.

“Won’t you, Monsieur Rosberg?” he said firmly.

The smile faded.

“Pardon?”

“I know everything”, Cas said. “France is not my country, but I do not believe your government will be happy that you have betrayed them to their German enemies.”

“Sir, I protest!”

“You trained Montmorency in secret, so that when he heard the sound of a dog-whistle, which humans cannot of course hear, he would head straight for it”, Cas said sternly. “You had Monsieur de Bréhaut observing from your cottage base, and when the dogs were playing in the garden, he blew the whistle. Montmorency headed straight home, and your servant has been keeping him there ever since.”

“That is pure speculation!” the diplomat insisted hotly, although I noticed he looked decidedly worried.

“The doctor and I liberated Montmorency yesterday morning, by the simple expedient of using a second dog-whistle” (of course, I thought!). “I am sure that, in order to prevent his barking being heard, the dog was kept in a semi-drugged state. The only problem with drugging a dog that size was that the dosage had to be small to be on the safe side, which meant that the one time he might be awake was early mornings. That was when we called. You, sir, are a traitor and a scoundrel.”

“You cannot prove any of this!” the diplomat almost shouted.

“You will resign your post immediately, and will take steps to leave the country”, Cas said firmly. “France, as well as England. I am sure Berlin will welcome one of its own.”

“And if I do not?” the man sneered.

Cas quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you testing me?” he said quietly.

“I think, sir, that you are, as you English say, bluffing. The French government would not want to risk such a scandal.”

Cas rose and walked across to the connecting door. He paused.

“The French government, Monsieur Rosberg, is the least of your problems!”

IV

He pulled open the door, and I stared in surprise. The doorway was filled with the largest member of the female species I had ever seen, a veritable Valkyrie. She was staring furiously at Monsieur Rosberg, and the fact she was holding a clearly happy Montmorency did not in the least detract from a look that indicated very clearly that violence was imminent.

“Gilles!” she thundered, and oh God, she had a voice to match her size. “Is what this nice man says true?”

Monsieur Rosberg flushed an alarming shade of white, and took a step back (towards the door out, I noted).

“Uh”, he managed.

The lady, presumably Mademoiselle Rosberg, had to actually edge slightly sideways to get her huge frame through the doorway, then advanced on her husband (although incredibly, she still found the time to send a simpering glance at my friend!). Her target looked pleadingly at Cas, who gave him an 'I warned you' look, then tuned to flee and promptly fell over the rug. My friend gestured to me, and the two of us slipped round him and out of the door. The last two things we heard were a strangled “Beloved....” from Monsieur Rosberg followed by a loud yelp that, I suspected, did not come from the dog.

“That was a little cruel”, I said once we were outside (my reproof might had had more weight had I not had to stop laughing first). Cas grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges as they always did when he truly smiled.

“I did offer him a chance to be reasonable”, he said. “I am sure Monsieur de Bréhaut had sent him a warning telegram to alert him of the dog's disappearance, so he must have at least feared the worst. He chose not to co-operate. Now he must face the consequences of that decision.”

A thud came from the room behind us, followed by a drawn out scream and some angry barking. I winced. Cas led me away down the corridor, and we went down to the waiting-room next to the entrance hall.

“I think that if Monsieur Rosberg survives his wife's understandable annoyance, he will prove amenable to my demands”, Cas smiled.

“If he survives”, I echoed. “So he is a German agent?”

Cas nodded. 

“He presumably went to the Germans after his homeland became part of their Empire, and offered to use his position in the French government to damage the country's ties with Great Britain”, he said. “He will most probably be given his old house in Lorraine, as the price of his betrayal.”

There was a small commotion around the reception desk at that moment, and three of the hotel staff ran towards the staircase. I smiled.

“I think Mademoiselle Rosberg must have been really annoyed”, I said. “Germany may not have much left by the time she has finished!” 

+~+~+

Our next case would also have a naval element, involving a captain who was not tired, and an encounter that was almost... supernatural.


	7. Case 49: Free To Be You And Me (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned (erroneously) elsewhere as 'the case of the tired captain'.

Foreword: Cas and I were called in on a whole number of cases where our client or someone related to them was convinced that whatever was happening to them had a supernatural explanation, and in almost every case, it turned out to be untrue. Almost every case. In only one instance did something strange end up leading to something… well, equally strange. The supernatural? Now that I can finally publish this case, I shall leave it to my readers to decide. 

And it was for once not my untidy writing but a publisher's error that I did not bother to correct, which described the captain involved as tired rather than retired.  
   
+~+~+

I  
   
Throughout that spring, Cas had been called up for a whole run of minor cases, and I began to despair of ever getting him to slow down and relax. Mrs. Harvelle reported to me that his afternoon naps seemed to be on the increase, which in turn caused me some problems as I had by this time reduced my surgery hours to just three days a week. The reason was the increasingly positive attention my novels of the great detective’s deeds were receiving, which had led to my publishers asking for me to publish another book, and for the magazine to ask for a near-continuous flow of works from my pen. This would normally have meant spending more time at home, but when I realized this was making Cas miss his afternoon rests – he had appeared mortified the one time he had dozed off whilst I was writing in the main room - and become even more tired of an evening, I started spending time in the local library instead. The only exception was of course on Sundays, when I went to our local park (fortunately they had a series of covered shelters, which given the wet weather that spring was a godsend). And it was in the park that I found a solution to my friend’s overworking, from a most unlikely source. Or rather, a solution found me.  
   
It was (appropriately, as things turned out) April Fools’ Day, and I was working through a particularly difficult part of our most recent adventure when I became aware someone had joined me in the shelter. Of course this was public property, but the shelters were small indeed, and I had spread myself out as a further disinclination against being disturbed. I looked up to see a horribly familiar long-nosed blond man with strange light brown eyes, almost golden in tone. I bit back my resentment at his presence, and forced what was very obviously a fake smile onto my face.

“Hope you can look more welcoming than that to your patients, doctor”, Gabriel Novak said, pushing my papers aside to take a seat. I stared at him suspiciously.  
   
“I reserve my welcoming face for those whose presence is actually welcome”, I said acidly. “Cas is back at the house, if you wish to see him.”  
   
Ever since this particular Novak had spied on Cas for their parents (and, of course, my blue-eyed angel had wreaked a delicious revenge!), I had been wary around Gabriel Novak. Though he did not make the frequent demands on my beloved Cas as the obnoxious Balthazar, and was less open in his disapproval of our relationship, I still did not trust him.  
   
“I would guess that you do not exactly hold the Novak family in high esteem, bearing in mind Balthazar is your main experience of it”, he said carefully. “Cassie has always wanted to be independent of us, and we have tried to respect that wish. He has made clear that you are part of his life now, and whilst we do not welcome it, we have tried to respect his decision. But we have continued to watch him from afar, and I have to tell you doctor, we are becoming concerned.”  
   
“He is overworked”, I said. “But he rarely declines a case, and he seems to feel that having been away so long during our Continental trip, he owes it to the common people to be there for them now he is returned. I only hope he is taking advantage of my absence to catch up on some sleep, rather than working on yet another problem.”  
   
“He always puts other people first”, Gabriel Novak said. “But I think I may have a solution.”  
   
“Go on”, I said warily.  
   
“Do you know a place called Futility Island?” he asked.  
   
I shook my head.  
   
“It’s a tiny place in the North Sea, close to the Essex coast and reached by a ferry from Mersea Island. Probably the closest spot to London that’s so isolated; Mersea itself can only be reached by a tidal road. There is a retired sea-captain who lives on the island, by name of Peregrine Falconbridge – I can only assume his parents didn’t like him much!”  
   
I could not help but smile.  
   
“Anyway, Mr. Falconbridge inherited his island house – it’s a disused lighthouse, by the way - from his father last year. He also got a decent estate with the island, but rather oddly, he decided to continue working. Some ten years ago he got into diamond-cutting, for which it seemed that he had a natural flair. He comes to London and spends a few days working each month, before heading back to his island. I think it better if he tells you most of his story. It’s quite weird, and I think it’ll entail you both going to his island, which means you’ll be there for some time; the ferry is operated by a local fisherman who they summon with a flag, and who then only comes when he’s not out fishing. And short of someone waving semaphore signals from the mainland, there is no way to get messages to the place.”  
   
I nodded, feeling slightly hopeful. I knew Cas was not really the workaholic that he sometimes came across as in my stories; he knew how to relax, and he even knitted (I had made the mistake of teasing him about this just once, after which he had done something with a scarf he had knitted that had led to me having to take a day off work to recover! And yes, I still had the scarf.). Cut off from those demanding his services, he could hopefully solve this case easily enough, and get some much-needed rest.  
   
“You should send this unhappily-named person to Baker Street”, I said.  
   
Gabriel smiled at me.  
   
“I shall arrange an appointment”, he said. Then he seemed to hesitate. “Doctor?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“Remember, we Novaks look after our own. You and Cassie – well. If you ever need our help, you have only to ask.”  
   
He quickly rose to his feet and was striding away between the flower-beds before I could ask him exactly what he meant by that last remark. I stared after him in confusion.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Mr. Peregrine Eustasias St. George Hieronymous Falconbridge was announced by Mrs. Harvelle (with a commendably straight face) at 221B just under a week later. He was a small, rather nervous-looking beta in his early sixties, grey-haired and almost cadaverous in his appearance. When he finally took a fireside chair, he just sat and stared at us for a few moments. Though I suppose in some ways that was better than the alternative; I privately thought that some of our clients frankly needed their lips sewing together!  
   
“How may we be of service, sir?” Cas prompted.  
   
The man jumped at his voice, and I wondered if we should send down again to Mrs. Harvelle for something a little stronger than coffee. Finally however, he seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.  
   
“My name, sirs, is Mr. Peregrine Falconbridge.” Like Cas, he had a deep bass voice totally unbefitting his reedy frame. “I live a quiet and withdrawn life on a small island off the coast of Essex, called Futility Island. Every month I come to London for a week’s work as a gem-cutter. It is a trade I took up some ten years past, when I retired from working as a captain after an accident that left me with the limp you see I still have. It turned out that I have a knack for dealing with the larger and more difficult gemstones, so my services are often in demand.”  
   
“All that travelling must be somewhat expensive”, I observed. He smiled.  
   
“It fetches me off the island”, he said, “which I suppose is good for me, and I get paid very well for my little work. You will understand that a solitary mistake in my line of work could cost thousands of pounds to the gem owner. So to the crux of my story. Last week I took the boat to Mersea as usual – I have to plan my day carefully, because that town is on a tidal island, and is itself cut off at high tide - and from there I took a cab to catch my train at Colchester. I travelled into London as was my usual custom, and everything seemed normal. Until, that is, I reached my workplace.”  
   
He paused for breath.

II  
   
“I do my work at Carborundum, a private cutting firm, and pay them a rent for the use of their rooms”, he went on. “I will not bore you with the science of my post, but my specialized trade requires only a few small instruments which I carry with me. On this particular day there was a man visiting the company, a beta called Mr. Kevin Tran, over from the United States. His own company has purchased a large consignment of diamonds from Kenya, and they were being shipped through London, his job being to evaluate them and telegraph a report to his employers. It was only later, from an overheard conversation at the warehouse, that I learned that he was in fact taking the largest single diamond over himself; he had checked the stones when the ship had docked two days earlier, and that one gemstone was worth considerably more than all the others put together.”  
   
“I do not think much of a workplace there they allow such information to be bruited about in such a manner”, I said sniffily.  
   
“It struck me as somewhat untoward, too”, our guest said, “though perhaps later, you will see why his employers placed such trust in him. He is a small, quiet man, very young – although I suppose at my age, everyone seems young – and not the sort one would normally notice, so it struck me as odd that even after our brief introduction, I continued to observe him. He was doing some work on lesser stones for the firm whilst he waited for his ship, which was due to leave Liverpool that Friday.”  
   
“The day passed quietly enough, as did the next three days. It is my usual custom to return to my island home after a week, but this time I wished to call in on a friend in Chelmsford and spend the weekend with them, so I planned my departure for Friday morning. I went into the company to say my farewells, and was surprised to find Mr. Tran waiting at the door for me. I do not use the words lightly when I say he looked exceedingly nervous. He pulled me to one side, and spoke so quietly that I was quite unnerved.  
   
'“You return to the country today, Mr. Falconbridge?” he said.  
   
I nodded, wondering what this was all about.  
   
“I know you will consider this somewhat presumptuous of me, but may I ask by which train you are travelling?”  
   
I frankly did not see what business it was of his, but the man was of a similar disposition to myself, and perhaps I related to him a little. Besides, as I have said, there was something strangely noticeable about him, though if pressed I could not say precisely what.  
   
”The ten o’clock from Liverpool Street”, I answered.  
   
He seemed to hesitate.  
   
“The eleven o’clock is a much nicer train”, he said quickly. “Good day, sir.”  
   
He scampered away before I could draw breath to reply. I stared after him, nonplussed.'  
   
I suddenly realized what our guest was leading up to.  
   
“The Ilford crash!” I exclaimed. Mr. Falconbridge nodded.  
   
“Yes”, he said heavily. “The man’s comments left me confused, and I arrived at Liverpool Street Station with only eight minutes in hand. I decided that there was no rush, and rather than hurry through the queue at the ticket-offices, I could easily take a later train, using the time to have a late breakfast. Imagine my reaction when, after only half an hour, I heard an announcement that all trains were being diverted because of a crash to the very train I myself should have been on. Four people were killed, and many injured. I could have been one of them.”  
   
“So this Mr. Tran may have saved your life”, Cas observed.  
   
Our guest looked rather awkward at that.  
   
“For the time being, he had”, he said.  
   
“What do you mean?” I asked. He continued his narrative.  
   
“I spent the weekend with my friend, and arrived safely at Colchester railway station on Sunday evening. I crossed the footbridge and was walking down Platform Two when someone shoved past me and nearly pushed me onto the track”, the man said. “There was a London-bound train just coming in, too. I dismissed it at the time as coincidence, but the following morning I went for a walk, as I had done the evening before, and found what were indisputably bullet-holes in a fence-post along my route. The island is barely a mile from Mersea at that point, so it is possible someone fired from the island, or took a boat out. Fortunately it was dark when I was out walking, so they must have missed.”  
   
“You did not hear the shots when they were fired?” I asked, surprised.  
   
“There is a shooting-range at the far end of Mersea, close to where it approaches my island”, he said. “I should say that the channel currents there are too powerful for anyone to try to swim across. But Mr. Novak, I am still afraid!”  
   
Cas pressed his long fingers together in thought, and remained silent for a little while before speaking.  
   
“We must proceed logically”, he said eventually. “I must ask you some direct questions, Mr. Falconbridge, and you must be honest in your answers.”  
   
“Of course”, our visitor said, looking even more frightened.  
   
“First”, Cas said, “cui bono? Who would benefit from your death?”  
   
“No-one”, the man said firmly. “I am unmarried, and the last of my line. The island will go to the local council, because my family only holds it whilst the male line survives. And my money, though it is a substantial amount, is split between a number of charities. The only exception is two small annuities that my father left for two of his faithful servants, which of course I chose to continue. A separate fund will keep those going until they pass on, after which that money too goes to charity.”  
   
Cas thought for a moment.  
   
“You said that when you left Carborundum, that this man was ‘waiting at the door’” he said. “Was he actually there when you came to leave, or did he cross the room to intercept you?”  
   
Our guest frowned as he tried to remember.  
   
“No, he was definitely waiting there”, he said. “I remember it must have been his leather jacket on the coat-stand; quite unsuitable for this country’s climate! I presumed that he too was leaving, as his boat was departing late that evening, but he did not leave before I did.”  
   
“If Doctor Winchester can find the time, we shall definitely accompany you back to Essex, and see this charming island of yours”, Cas said, much to my surprise (and delight). “That is, if your light-house can put up three bachelors?”  
   
“I would be happy to go”, I said. “I shall send the surgery a telegram before we go.”  
   
“I would also like to call in at this Carborundum of yours”, Cas said. “This is a most curious case you have brought us, Mr. Falconbridge. However….”  
   
He paused.  
   
“However, I feel it only fair to warn you that your life is in some danger. Do you have a gun?”  
   
The man went so pale that I was afraid he might pass out.  
   
“A g-g-gun. sir?” he quavered.  
   
“Winchester and I will both bring ours”, Cas said reassuringly, pulling open a notepad. “And I must send a telegram before we leave.”  
   
III  
   
Carborundum lay on the far side of the city, on the edge of the East End, and it took some little time to get there. Cas had on his knowing smile, and I knew he was already on to something.  
   
“What is it?” I demanded. “You have that look again.”  
   
“We have been working together too long if you can read me like that, friend”, Cas smiled. “I sent a message to Henriksen to make sure we were not followed by the driver of that hansom parked opposite us in Baker Street whilst we were talking.”  
   
“I am being followed?” That, of course, set Mr. Falconbridge off into a panic again.  
   
“Not any more”, Cas smiled. “Henriksen will meet us at Liverpool Street if he has any news, but I doubt your pursuer is that careless. I made sure he pulled him in for questioning before we left, so he will not know that you have acquired company.”  
   
We arrived safely at the cutting firm, and Cas went in alone. He emerged just ten minutes later, and instructed our driver to head to the station.  
   
“Did you find out what you wanted?” I asked. He nodded.  
   
The firm took on two new staff in the last few months”, he said. “Both alphas, a Mr. Alistair Campbell and a Mr. Duncan MacAndrew.”  
   
“Both Scots”, I noted.  
   
“The owner is Scottish”, Mr. Falconbridge put in, “and I know he prefers to hire his own where possible.”  
   
“I hope Henriksen is on form”, Cas said, as we sped along. “I rather fear that I am about to make severe demands on the poor man.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
Sergeant Henriksen met us at Liverpool Street Station as planned, and as Cas had feared, he had no news on Mr. Falconbridge’s pursuer.  
   
“The cabbie was told to make sure the man left by the train from here, then to go and stand in a busy side-street nearby for five minutes, and pretend to see to his horse”, he said. “The man who gave him a crown for that great service was, and I quote, ‘tall, dark and mysterious’.”  
   
“Our London cab-drivers read too many novels in their spare time”, Cas said sonorously. “Authors these days!”  
   
It took rather longer than it should have done for me to squawk in protest at that remark. Cas chuckled, and handed over a sheet from his notebook to the policeman.  
   
“I need anything and everything you can dig up on those two”, he said. “I am sorry to do this, Victor, but I need it in less than two hours. Whatever you have by that time can be sent to the telegraph office at a place called West Mersea in Essex, which we shall then be passing through.”  
   
Henriksen nodded and took the files and I noticed that he hurried away, something his bulk was not really built for. Cas steered us to the ticket-office, and we purchased tickets to Colchester. We were soon safely ensconced on the train, and I unfolded my newspaper as it pulled out of the station. We were barely up to speed when I gasped.  
   
“What is it?”  
   
“Listen to this!” I proclaimed. ‘”There has been a most audacious theft aboard the liner Titan, en route from Liverpool to New York. The victim was a passenger called Mr. Kevin Tran, who it had emerged was transporting what is believed to be the third-largest yellow sapphire in the world. The theft was discovered when the ship docked at Dublin, and it is feared that the thief has made his escape into Ireland.’”  
   
To the surprise of both of us, Cas chuckled.  
   
“I would like to have met Mr. Tran”, he said. “Mr. Falconbridge, is this the same coat you were wearing when you met him?”  
   
“Indeed it is”, the man said. “Is that important?”  
   
“I was only going to say we should place them in the rack”, Cas said. “It is a warm day for the time of year, and we have at least an hour’s railway journey ahead of us.”  
   
He took both our coats, added his own and hoisted them all into the overhead rack, and we sat back, whilst I continued to peruse the newspaper article.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We were riding down to West Mersea, the sole town on the island of that name, when Cas posed a question to our client.  
   
“You said that the ferry service, such as it is, is run by a local fisherman”, he said. “How trustworthy is he?”  
   
“Exceedingly so”, Mr. Falconbridge said, proudly. “His family have worked for mine for generations.”  
   
“I am thinking about your pursuer”, Cas explained. “He will either come here or send someone here. I think we should be prepared.”  
   
Mr. Falconbridge leaned forward.  
   
“How so?” he asked.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I have to say that I loved Futility Island. It was no more than a hundred yards from top to bottom, and barely twenty across across. The old lighthouse stood proud and erect at its exact centre, though it was less than half the size of its modern replacement which we could see a mile and a half away on the mainland. 

Mr. Falconbridge excused himself immediately on our arrival, saying he had to finish working on a small gemstone whilst he still had the light (his work-room was in a small extension building adjoined to the lighthouse, with windows on three sides as there was only gas-lighting on the island). Cas bundled me up to our rooms, which because of the nature of the building were on different sides of the building.

I remember that Cas asked one question at dinner that evening which stuck in my memory for later.

“Apart from your obliging local fisherman, how else might someone gain access to the island?”

Mr. Falconbridge looked puzzled. 

“It is surprisingly difficult”, he said. “You may have noticed that Tom went out some way west of the island before turning back. Although there is a deep channel between us and Mersea, the north of the island is on a wide triangular sandbank. That is why the lighthouse was built for the bigger ships; despite the charts, they kept grounding on the bank.”

I remember that question because of what happened precisely two days later.

IV

Mr. Falconbridge, rather unfortunately for a man who had inherited a disused lighthouse, shared with me a poor head for heights. His bedroom was in the extension, and I was glad that my room had no large windows to remind me just how far from the ground I was. I pointedly refrained from looking out of the small side-windows every time we descended to that ground, and was tempted to kiss it on arrival sometimes!

The day after our arrival was warm and pleasant, and the biting wind off the North Sea that had marked our arrival was mercifully absent. After dinner we all retired to my rooms, and I decided that I had been without the man I loved for far too long. I went up to his room only to find him gone, but glancing up, I could see the door to the light-room was slightly ajar. Gulping, I ascended.

The room was, of course, large and round. The light itself had been dismantled long ago, but they had left the bright sheeting around the wall, making the room feel much warmer than the corridor I had just come from. Though the heat in the room was the last thing on my mind. I was more concerned with the heat that was happening around my middle, as I surveyed the sight before me. 

Cas was stood naked, his hands against the huge window. He turned as I approached, and gave me the sort of Look which told me precisely what was about to unfold. I gulped.

“The view from here is magnificent!” he muttered. “You should really come and take a look, Dean.”

“Thanks, I'll pass”, I said, torn between Cas' body and the urge not to be reminded just how many feet lay between me and Mother Earth. 

He beckoned me over, and my legs decided to obey him whilst my mind was still dithering. He positioned me up against the glass as he had been, sliding off my dressing-gown and rubbing his strong hands all over my back. I shuddered, and concentrated on staring at the great light rather than around it to the distant and very low horizon. Apparently his Not Doing It In Private Houses Rule was about to be deferred.

“I bet that I can take your mind off of that”, he muttered, and the combination of fear and lust was so overwhelming that I barely noticed as he started preparing me. I whined, but when he started just rubbing himself lazily against me, I rapidly grew impatient.

“Cas!” I almost snarled.

“You really need a lesson in patience, Dean”, he grinned. Then somehow he managed to slide himself in front of me whilst keeping his fingers inside of me, and before I could say anything he was using my prostate as a punch-bag with one hand and grabbing the base of my cock to prevent me from coming with the other. My eyes rolled back into my head and I almost fell backwards as my brain just about gave up, but of course he was strong enough to hold me, only increasing the exquisite torture. Finally he let me go, and I erupted so hard that my ejaculate flew right up between us and to the side, my painfully sensitive cock jerking violently as I finally achieved release. He was not long behind me, and pulled me into a hug once I was done.

“So”, he said, “still afraid of heights?”

I was almost too exhausted to answer, but I kissed him before whispering 'round two up here tomorrow'. At least he did not have to help me back to his room.

Well, not much.

+~+~+

There is something remarkably liberating about being cut off from civilization, especially in these days of mass communication and the telegraph. Of course messages could be passed to us if needed, but I was frankly overjoyed to see Cas looking so happy the day after our arrival, sat in the old light-room whilst the seagulls screamed outside. He had brought his knitting, thankfully enough, and it was almost surreal to see him clicking away in the light-room where, hours before, he had let me take him against the huge window. And I had not even minded the heights, although in fairness my mind was on other things at the time. I knew not what sort of danger threatened our host, but I could not think anything could reach us here.

The following morning, I found out just how wrong that belief was.

There was a small storm that night, and when I emerged to the light the next morning, it was to an amazing sight. About a dozen people were standing at the little harbour, and Tom's fishing boat was tied up there as he talked with Mr. Falconbridge. Two more boats were sat just off the island, clearly awaiting their turn to dock at the tiny jetty.

All became clear when I went round the back of the lighthouse, to find a large fishing-boat beached on the sandbank just off the island. Cas came up behind me as I observed.

“They went out to sea from Clacton to observe the meteor shower last night”, he said. “Apparently the ship's navigator misread the charts and got caught out by the sandbank.”

I looked at him suspiciously. He gave me his best innocent look, which I did not believe for one moment.

Six of the people, still looking damp from presumably having to wade from their wrecked boat to the island, squeezed onto Tom's boat, which sailed away as we watched, to be replaced by the first of the two waiting smaller craft. Cas nudged me, and steered me over to the harbour, where the remaining six people were waiting impatiently. To my surprise there were already three men seated in this boat, and one of them was unmistakably our friend Henriksen. Though that was not as surprising as what happened next. One of the men in the waiting line, a pasty-faced middle-aged blond man, looked around nervously, then reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

“I know you, Victor!” he yelled at the approaching figure. “Stay there, or you'll never see this again!”

Henriksen just grinned and continued to approach him - I recognized one of the other men now as Constable Goodenough from the same station – and his target clearly realized there was no escape. He stepped back and hurled whatever he was holding as far out to sea as he could, and as it span through the air, I recognized it as a gemstone.

“Mr. Falconbridge's work!” I gasped.

Henriksen and his men had the man in handcuffs by this time, despite his worst efforts. Cas led me up to them, and coughed politely.

“Hullo, Henriksen. Mr. Alistair Campbell, I presume?”

“I'm saying nothin' without a lawyer!” the cuffed man sneered. “I know my rights!”

“Very advisable, in your case”, Henriksen grinned. “Theft is a serious crime.”

“I don't see no evidence”, the man snapped back. “Unless you plan to dredge the whole damned estuary?”

“Why would we do that for a fake gemstone?” Cas smiled, coming up to him.

Mr. Campbell stared at him.

“You're lying!” he snapped.

Cas shook his head and stepped back, before putting his hand into his pocket. When it emerged, he was holding a large uncut yellow sapphire, which even it its raw state shone in the morning sun. It was a good thing he had withdrawn, as Campbell lunged after him.

“Now now, Alistair”, Henriksen grinned. “You need to control that temper of yours. Breaking and entering, theft, violence against a member of the public, resisting arrest – some judge is gonna have a field day with you!”

He and his fellow officers dragged Campbell away to the waiting boat, hard-pressed even with the four of them. I turned to my friend.

“Explain!” I demanded.

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I sighed in a put-upon way.

“Please?” I ground out.

V

“This case was unusual as it hinged around a supposition based on someone that I have never actually met”, Cas said later. The three of us were sat in the light-room, which was the warmest room in the building during the day. “Mr. Kevin Tran clearly seems to possess some psychic abilities, and I started with the assumption that he used those to further his own ends.”

“By keeping me alive, you mean”, Mr. Falconbridge said.

“Rather more”, Cas said. “He knew that an attempt would be made to steal the sapphire on the boat, so before leaving London, he arranged to slip it into your possession, placing it in your long-coat when he met you that day in Carborundum. I have such a coat myself, and I know how deep the pockets go.”

“So you knew someone might attempt to steal it?” I asked. He nodded.

“The man pushing you at Colchester was, I think, just an accident”, he said. “Campbell went on the liner with Tran, probably with a ticket to Ireland, and stole what turned out to be a fake gem. He had seen the two of you talking at Carborundum, and guessed that Tran must have 'palmed' the stone onto you without your knowing. Our criminal friend then had to find a way to reach the island, and was fortunate the the annual meteor show was being seen by a boat leaving Clacton soon after. I dare say he bribed the navigator, making sure the boat crashed onto the sandbank, and in the confusion that followed, it was simple for him to break into the work-room. Mr. Falconbridge and I had made sure a fake stone was placed there, ready to be cut; he dared not use any light, as our host sleeps in the next room. And you have seen what followed.”

“So Mr Tran should be making contact again soon?” I ventured.

“He will return from Dublin once the police there have finished questioning him, most probably to Liverpool”, Cas said. “I am fairly sure that Mr. Campbell is the sort of person who prefers to work alone, Mr. Falconbridge, but it might be better if you let one of us go to meet him, just in case.”

“I would be delighted”, our host said. “This whole experience has quite put me off my chosen field of work!”

+~+~+

In the end, it was I who travelled to Bristol to hand the stone over to Mr. Tran. He was taking a train from Liverpool to connect with another liner from Plymouth, and would break his journey to meet with me. 

Kevin Tran turned out to match Mr. Falconbridge's description quite accurately. He was in his twenties, dark-haired and of Asiatic appearance. He thanked me for bringing him the stone, and as his train came in before mine, I saw him to his carriage. He leaned out of the carriage window, and just as the guard's whistle blew, he suddenly spoke.

“Doctor”, he said seriously, “there is something you must remember.”

“What?” I asked, starting to walk as the train was beginning to leave the station. 

He hesitated, the gap between us starting to widen. I barely heard his final words:

“Seeing is believing”, he called out. “But scenting is knowing!”

+~+~+

Postscript: Ten years later, I received a book in the post, with no sender's name, although it had been posted in the United States. The title was Futility, and it was the story of how a liner described as 'unsinkable', called the Titan, set sail on its maiden voyage across the Atlantic Ocean with an insufficient number of lifeboats, struck an iceberg and sank to the bottom of the ocean with the loss of many lives. I am sure I need not remind my gentle readers what happened fourteen years after that.....

+~+~+

In our next adventure together, I discovered that dead men do tell tales... and that they can have a strange sense of humour even from beyond the grave....


	8. Case 50: Bedtime Stories (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Crooked Man'.

(This story has been amended to include the fluffy bunnies. And the bedroom scene. And the bit at the start when I drive my readers round the bend by teasing them like this). 

+~+~+

I

As things turned out, Cas and I had stayed on Futility Island for a further two weeks after the conclusion to our ‘supernatural’ case, the only gap being my day excursion across the country to Bristol to meet Mr. Kevin Tran. I had prepared a whole raft of arguments as to why we should prolong our stay there (i.e. why Cas should take a much-needed break), but typically he forestalled me by suggesting staying on himself. The sight of him happily knitting away in the light-room gladdened my heart, and he looked noticeable better when we did finally leave the island, towards the end of April.

The frequent light-room sex was totally incidental, by the way.  
   
Of course, it could not last. I had taken the opportunity offered by the Bristol trip to telegraph Mrs. Harvelle that she could undertake her annual spring-clean of our rooms in Baker Street, and we arrived back to find the place cleaned to within half an inch of its life. Fortunately she had not touched Cas’ writing-table, where the notes that I kept organized for him remained almost untouched, though she had somehow managed to dust them. 

We had precisely one evening back before our next, incredibly strange case broke upon us. Sergeant Henriksen called round early the morning after our return, to report that Mr. Alistair Campbell was indeed facing a long jail sentence, and that his only real regret was that we no longer transported felons like him to Australia.  
   
“Though I doubt he will live long enough to breathe free air again”, Henriksen said, sinking his bulk into a fireside chair. “No, it is another case that brings me here this morning.”  
   
“One you have just started?” Cas asked.  
   
The policeman shook his head.  
   
“You could say this one’s been going for about four years”, he said mysteriously.  
   
It was then that I remembered. Today was chocolate cake day for Mrs. Harvelle. Hmm.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“I don’t know if even you will be able to make head nor tail of this”, the policeman said, scratching his bald head. “It started four years ago with a chap called Alexander Felton. He was a terrifying fellow, and when he moved from Dundee to London, the Angus police sent us his folder, and I remember groaning when I read it. They even included a 'good luck' card, the kilted bastards! It might have been quicker for them to list the crimes he hadn’t been involved in!”  
   
“I do not remember you ever mentioning him”, Cas said with a frown.  
   
“With good reason”, the policeman went on. “This was one time when the Fates were kind to us poor coppers, at least to start with. The day he came South, there was a goods train derailment at Shap, blocking the West Coast line. He took the Midland route via Settle instead, and it was on that train that he met a lady, a Miss Gladys Welsh. Apparently there is such a thing as love at first sight, for they were married as soon as the three weeks were up.”  
   
“Did he not have to register in a London parish first?” I asked, surprised.  
   
“He came south because he inherited a small house in the Minories from a distant cousin”, Henriksen explained, "and he had to register by post to inherit it. The banns were published there, and they were married there too. Sadly, it ended in tragedy. She became pregnant, but the baby was born a month early, and she died in childbirth. The child, named for her mother, almost followed her out of this world, but the hospital staff pulled her through. For a couple of years Felton kept his nose clean, but then a cousin of his moved from Cheshire to just outside London and she took the child in from time to time, enabling him to turn back to a life of crime.”  
   
“Anything you consulted me on?” Cas asked.  
   
“It was all fairly minor until last year”, Henriksen said. “Then he was involved in the Barton Street Bank Robbery. The gang got away with thousands, but one of them later turned informer, and we had enough to nail Felton.”  
   
“What went wrong?” I asked.  
   
“The man had gone to live in small house in Buckinghamshire, for the child's health, he claimed. We arrested him all right, but whilst he was in custody one of the other gang members got to him. He was stabbed in the neck and killed. The other guys might know where he hid the loot, but they’re all in for twenty at least.”  
   
Cas looked at him quizzically.  
   
“This took place last year, then”, he observed. “Yet you’ve only just been given the case?”  
   
Henriksen blushed.  
   
“Our Inspector Bull is retiring”, he admitted, “and he wants his son Albert, who’s a sergeant over at Goodge Street, to replace him. They had to advertise the post, and I applied. This is the old man’s way of scuppering what little chances I had. He's only one voice on the Police Board who make the decision, but when I fail, his son is bound to be chosen.”  
   
“When do they make this decision?” Cas asked.  
   
“Friday week.”  
   
“Then we have ten days to find the money.”  
   
For the first time that morning, Henriksen actually looked hopeful.  
   
“I should warn you, we have next to no clues”, he said, his face falling again. “We searched Felton’s house in Amersham - and his old London house for that matter - from top to bottom. Absolutely nothing! I even had to go through the kid’s things, which was horrible.”  
   
Cas thought for a while.  
   
“Is there a way to see the house without upsetting the child?” he asked. 

Henriksen scratched his bald head.

“She's in the county hospital with some germ or other this week”, he said. “The cousin who came down to London is taking her in, name of Mrs. Arlesburgh. Married to a bank manager and lives up in Harrow, and she's sorting the house sale this week with an estate agent in her area. I think the kid comes out either Saturday or Sunday, and Mrs. A. has said she's taking her straight to Harrow, rather than subjecting her to the house again. So any day next week will be fine.”  
   
“We had better choose Monday, then”, Cas said. “That still leaves us some time before your big day.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
I was surprised when, two days later, Cas asked if I would accompany him to interview the aforementioned Mrs. Arlesburgh, the relation to whom the well-being of the young Gladys Felton was now entrusted. I was initially amazed that Mrs. Arlesburgh had agreed to such a thing, though on reflection I should not have been. Cas could somehow charm the female persuasion even through the medium of the telegraph machine!  
   
We took a cab to Euston the following day, and after a short journey arrived at Harrow and Wealdstone station, where another cab took us into town and deposited us outside The Blue Boy restaurant. I hardly needed to ask which of the patrons was our client; a lady dressed in mourning clothes sat stiffly upright at one of the tables, a cup of tea before her. Cas walked up to her and bowed.  
   
“Mrs. Arlesburgh?” he asked politely. “I am Mr. Castiel Novak, and this is my friend Doctor Dean Winchester. Thank you for agreeing to spare us some of your valuable time this sombre day.”  
   
And heavens to Betsy, the woman actually simpered at him! Over fifty, married and in mourning clothes to boot, yet she was looking at him like he was the Second Coming. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

(Contrary to what Cas later claimed, I did not snort indignantly at that point. I did not! It was just a cough.)

II  
   
We ordered two more coffees and some cakes - Cas was kind enough to request pie for me, bless him!) - and he got straight to the point.  
   
“First, I would like to reassure you that my friend Sergeant Henriksen and myself are making every effort to avoid causing your new charge any distress at all”, he said sombrely. “Her welfare comes first and foremost, that I promise.”  
   
She seemed to relax a little at that.  
   
“You are clearly an upstanding citizen”, Cas said, “so I feel no scruples about discussing certain elements of the case of your cousin’s recent activities with you. As I am sure you know, he was implicated in the theft of a large sum of money. We are talking some tens of thousands of pounds. Three men went to jail for the crime, and the one who attacked him has been rightly hung, but the money remains hidden. The two remaining men deny any knowledge of its whereabouts, and it will be many years before we can know if they are speaking the truth.”  
   
“And I suppose the bank is employing you to track down the money?” she said, a little harshly.  
   
“No”, he said, to her evident surprise. “Sergeant Henriksen is a friend of mine, and I help him because of that. I think it only fair to tell you, Mrs. Arlesburgh, that should I locate that money, I shall return it to the bank. However, I shall demand that a substantial amount is set aside for the use of Miss Felton.”  
   
“Sir!” she protested.  
   
“Not as an inheritance”, he went on. “I have to say that it is exceptionally kind-hearted of you to take on such a responsibility for a distant relation. However, even with your husband’s help, raising a child is an expensive business, and you still have one of your own at home, Henriksen tells me. That money, if I can find it, would be for you to use as you see fit until she is twenty-one, and for her thereafter.”  
   
Mrs. Arlesburgh nodded, and seemed to think for a while before speaking.  
   
“There is very little I can tell you, Mr. Novak”, she said. “I usually left Alex and Gladys alone when I was around, so he could have his time with her. Despite his... 'activities', he was a kind man at heart, and never happier than when he was with her. I have read the good doctor's books (I blushed at this point) “and I know how the smallest things can reveal the truth to you. There is one matter that I did not like to bother Sergeant Henriksen with as I feared he would think it silly, but perhaps you can make something out of it?”  
   
“Please go on”, Cas said.  
   
“Alexander always liked to sing nursery rhymes when he put Gladys to bed”, she said. “I only thought of this after his death, but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Before the robbery, he would recite different rhymes with her each time; she was too young to have favourites. But after the robbery, it was always the same rhyme, right up until he was arrested.”  
   
“Which rhyme?” I asked, sitting forward.  
   
“The one about the crooked man with the crooked house”, she said. “I asked him once why it had suddenly become such a favourite of hers, but he refused to tell me.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
Saturday found Cas poring over a map I had not seen before. It turned out to be one of the area around Amersham, the town on the edge of which the late Alexander Felton had purchased his cottage. I was surprised to see a pair of compasses next to the map, and what looked like a large black circle drawn on it.  
   
Cas looked up at me and smiled one of those gummy smiles of his. It reminded me why so many women found him irresistible.  
   
“I hope you have a pair of good walking-boots”, he said.  
   
“Pardon?” I said, confused.  
   
He gestured to the circle on the map.  
   
“At least eight miles of good Buckinghamshire air”, he said, “and probably more since we shall be prevented from walking through people’s back gardens. We have at least ten possible places to examine.”  
   
“Examine for what?” I asked.  
   
“Stiles.”  
   
I looked at him, now completely confused. He chuckled.  
   
“’He found a crooked sixpence, upon a crooked stile’?” he quoted.  
   
“Of course!” I said. “The rhyme!”  
   
“Making the fair assumption that the stile would be on a field border, there are at least ten possibilities”, he said. “We shall need to examine each closely, as we have no idea exactly what form this ‘sixpence’ will take.”  
   
“Could not Henriksen help us, with some of his men?” I asked.  
   
Cas shook his head.  
   
“If he is to benefit from this, then we can hardly be in the same area looking for clues”, he said. “I doubt even his superiors would be able to refrain from putting two and two together then. No, we must remain hidden, at least until we can present him with a finished case. Then, provided I find the money, you will be able to add this story to your growing lexicon.”

The prospect pleased me. My 'Phantom Traveller' story had been well received, and 'And Then There Were None' had also had very positive reviews. I was just finishing 'Death Takes A Holiday', the second of our four Continental stories to be published, six months after which my publishers would be allowed to include it in my latest book.  
   
“Of course you will find it!” I scoffed.  
   
He smiled at my blind faith, but seemed a little pleased at it anyway.  
   
+~+~+  
   
On Monday, we left Baker Street and took an underground train to the end of the line at Rickmansworth (the Metropolitan Railway's extension to our destination was then still being built). From that Hertfordshire town we took a cab to Amersham High Street.

“I did not wish to incite local gossip by asking for us to be taken straight to the house”, Cas explained. “Besides, I did warn you that you might have a lot of walking to do.”

It was a crisp, spring day, fine and with a gentle cooling breeze, and I was walking in the country with my best friend. I smiled at him.

“I am prepared!” I said.

Henriksen had given us the key to the cottage which, fortuitously, was an isolated building, so we were not seen entering. However, an hour spent searching the place proved fruitless, at least until Cas pointed out something unusual on Mr. Felton's writing-desk. It was a children's story-book. He opened it, and grinned knowingly at me before reading aloud from it:

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.  
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.  
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,  
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

“Rather obliging of his to leave such a clue”, I said dubiously.

Cas smiled at my cynicism.

“Remember that the book only makes sense to us because of what Mrs. Arlesburgh told us”, he reminded me. “Anyone else searching for the money would assume that it was just left there by accident.”

“We just have to find a country stile”, I said. “He even bookmarked it for you.”

“Actually the bookmark was in the story of The Owl And The Pussycat”, Cas said. “That concerns me, but for now we must press on. 

He nodded and we left, locking the place behind us.

III

Five hours later, we were sitting in a tavern in Amersham tired, footsore and not a single step closer to finding any money. None of the many stiles had been precisely one mile from the cottage, and a thorough examination of each had found nothing. A light shower during the day had dampened my enthusiasm, and I felt exhausted. Cas looked across the table at me.

“I am sorry for dragging you all the way out here”, he said ruefully. “I get so carried away with my cases that I tend to overlook important things, like friends.”

I smiled back at him.

“At least we tried”, I said. “Perhaps when we are safely back at 221B we can look at other possibilities?”

He looked as depressed as I felt, and that worried me. I could see some of the good work of our island holiday coming undone.

+~+~+

I needed my sleep that night, so I was somewhat surprised to be shaken awake in the small hours of the following morning by a clearly excited detective. It must have been very early, because the only thing that I could focus on was that the great detective wore teal-blue pyjamas with fluffy bunny rabbits on them. Either that, or the cheese I had partaken of for supper had been decidedly off.

“Doctor, I have it!” he proclaimed. “God, I have been so stupid, but now I see it!”

“See what?” I asked groggily, sitting up as he sat gracelessly on my bed. 

“Why the bookmark!” he said, clearly excited by whatever discovery he had made. “When Mr. Felton talked about a crooked mile, he was being more literal than I thought. It wasn't a statute mile but a nautical one, which is at least ten per cent larger.”

I shook my head in confusion, still trying to wake up.

“So we were looking in the wrong place, then?” I asked.

He belatedly seemed to realize that shouting excitedly at your friend in your friend's bedroom in the small hours of the morning was not..... well, it just was not. 

“I am sorry”, he said, looking suddenly downcast. “As I said, I get carried away, and I forget myself, and I shouldn't have woken you, and I'm sorry, and.....”

I reached out and took his hand, much to his evident surprise. 

“Cas”, I said, “even in those pyjamas, the man I love is standing at my bedside looking happy. That makes me happy.”

He looked abashed.

“Of course”, I went on, “seeing you out of those pyjamas would make me even happier!”

He was, as usual, out of them in record time, slipping naked into bed behind me. I shuddered and waited for what I knew was to come. He tensed.

“Dean?”

“Uh huh?”

“You are wearing those panties. In bed.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you didn't think to invite me in anyway? You bad boy!”

I shuddered as his tone slipped down an octave.

“I think you should wear them all day tomorrow”, he whispered. “All. Day. Long. And if you can restrain yourself the whole day, then there will certainly be a reward for you at the end of it.”

“What sort of reward?” I croaked. 

He slid his long lithe body up against mine and chuckled darkly.

“There's only one way you're going to find out”, he whispered. “Good night, Dean.”

He promptly fell asleep, leaving me hard and desperate, staring into the dark.

“That was just mean!” I whined.

Even close to sleep, he chuckled evilly, the bastard!

+~+~+

Even though there was no external clue as to my unusual choice of undergarments that day, I still felt awkward as came out of my room the following morning. It did not help that the first sight I saw was Cas' beautiful backside as he was bending over a chair to get a book. He stood up and smiled knowingly at me.

I can do this, I told myself. I am alpha, I am strong. I want that reward. 

Even if winning it kills me.

Breakfast seemed to take an eternity, even after as usual I had surrendered the better half of my bacon to the blue-eyed genius. Finally however we left for the train, the walk down Baker Street seeming rather longer than I remembered. The train ride was excruciating, as Cas kept giving me knowing looks, and I nearly came at one set of points. I was actually sweating by the time we reached Rickmansworth, where this time Cas asked the cab-driver to take us to the village of Little Missenden, just beyond the town of Amersham. From there we walked only a little way out into the country before we reached our first stile.

“I found three possible locations, all within one per cent of a nautical mile from the cottage”, Cas explained. “One here and one a little way north, just outside a village called Hyde Heath. We will then have to work our way round to the third, which is the other side of Amersham. I am afraid there are a further ten possible sites which are within five per cent of the required distance.”

“Then we'd better get started”, I smiled.

“Comfortable?” he asked innocently. 

I scowled.

IV

Today, Lady Luck was with us. The stile in Little Missenden and the first of the ten 'possibles' both turned up nothing, but in Hyde Heath I found what I thought was a nail pushed into the wood of the stile. Puzzled – something that exposed should surely have rusted by now – I used my knife to extract it, and nearly dropped it in my excitement.

It was a sixpence. And someone had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to hammer one side of it over at right-angles, so it had appeared as just a nail.

“You are a genius, Winchester”, Cas smiled. “I do not suppose you can find either a cat or a mouse whilst you are at it?”

Regrettably the stile and the ground around it yielded nothing else. Cas decided to return to the town and make inquiries as to whether Mr. Alexander Felton had ever purchased any animals. He also dispatched a telegram to Mrs. Arlesburgh, asking the same question; clearly she must have been prepared, for the answer came back before we left the town. Sadly it was negative, as was Cas' inquiries at the two places in town that sold cats. But we returned to Baker Street in higher spirits, feeling we were closer to an answer even if we only had two full days left.

+~+~+

Henriksen had sent us over the complete file on the late Mr. Alexander Felton, and Cas and I spent much of Tuesday evening reading the massive volume. It was little wonder that Angus' county constabulary had danced with joy at the man's departure from their turf.

Somehow I had survived that day without having a nervous breakdown, though after Cas' reward – I am not going to go into too many details, except that to say that I acquired a memory to link with cherry pie that made me smile in latter years – we finally fell asleep, with him in my arms. Ironically this time it was I who woke in the middle of the night with sudden inspiration, my sleep-sodden brain deciding that two ante meridian was the perfect time to connect the dots. I was sorely tempted to wake the blissed-out lump in bed with me and tell him, but I loved him too much for that, and besides, he deserved his rest.

+~+~+

“You have an idea.”

Cas was staring at me across the living-room of Mr. Felton's cottage. I had been searching the place for something I felt should be there, but palpably was not. I frowned.

“Have we searched every room?” I asked.

“Between us, we have”, he said. “But clearly you are looking for something specific. You have been on edge ever since you woke up.”

“I was wondering if he had any whips here”, I said.

“Only the one in his bedroom”, he answered. When I stared at him clearly nonplussed, he went on. “He had a small collection of relics from his days at sea, in one of the bedside drawers.”

I stared at him in excitement. 

“And it included a whip?” I demanded. 

“Yes”, he said. “So what?”

I strode across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders in my excitement. He looked decidedly alarmed.

“My friend”, I said slowly, “the old name for the whip used on sailors was 'the cat o' nine tails'!”

We stared at each other for a moment, then he slipped my grasp – he could move like lightning when the need arose – and shot out of the room, his feet sounding heavy on the stairs seconds later. I pursued him up those stairs (not for that, or at least not here), but even so he had opened the drawer and upended all of the contents onto the bed. There were three items apart from the cat: a carved tusk from some luckless sea-creature, a small notebook and a jewellery box. Cas picked the tusk up whilst I examined the notebook. 

“Absolutely nothing!” I said in frustration. “Someone has torn out half the pages!”

“This is strange”, he said, looking closely at the tusk. “It has the name 'Gladys' carved into it.”

“So?” I said. “That was his wife's name, and later his daughter's.”

“Yes”, he said slowly, “but some other name has been erased or changed by it. The spacing is not quite right, and an extra letter has been rubbed out.” He squinted, trying to make out the incredibly faint marks. “A-L-I-C.... the missing letter must be an 'E'. I wonder who Alice was?”

“Possibly a girlfriend”, I said. “Possibly even another wife, knowing what sailors are. He met young Gladys' mother after finishing with the sea, remember.”

I picked up the cat, and stared hopefully at it.

“Tell me where the mouse is”, I muttered.

“If only that worked!” Cas smiled from behind me. 

The cat did actually have nine 'tails', and I ran my hand along one of them, shuddering when I thought how they were used on sailors. It was then that I noticed it. Someone had obviously used a metal type to imprint a letter 'O' near the end. I fumbled for a moment, then examined the other ends. 

Jackpot!

“Cas!” I hissed. “Look!”

I showed him the cat, and we quickly jotted down the letters. In addition to the 'O', we had two 'D's, another 'O' and one each of 'G', 'S', 'N', 'C' and 'L'. 

“Only two vowels”, I pouted. “GOLD CONDS? Or is one of the 'D's really an 'I', and it meaning gold coins?”

Cas smiled that knowing smile of his, and almost ran over to the bookshelf. He fumbled for only a few moments before holding up a book in triumph, and bringing it over to me.

“'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'?” I said in surprise.

“By that interesting author, Mr. C. L. Dodgson”, he grinned. 

“The letters!” I almost shouted.

Meanwhile Cas was flipping through the book, until he came to a picture showing the Mouse swimming away. Taped to the page was a receipt for a London jewellery store, which he read aloud.

“'Recreation of lost family heirloom necklace from fake copy; diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires and topazes, including distressing services, sum total six thousand pounds. Paid.”

“But why did they not come forward when the case became public?” I asked.

Cas shook his head.

“That industry functions on trust and discretion”, he said. “The shop-owner would lose valuable business if he assisted the police with their inquiries.” He opened the jewellery box and extracted a beautiful necklace with over twenty different-coloured stones in it. 

“The real jewels?” I asked, breathlessly.

To my surprise, he shook his head.

“Fakes”, he said. “But they do tell me where the money is.”

V

To my immense chagrin, Cas would not tell me what he knew, except to say that he had scheduled a further meeting with Mrs. Arlesburgh the following day, and dispatched a reassuring telegram to Henriksen's home. Fortunately we were going to the opera that night, and that distracted me from otherwise worrying about the case. 

The following day we met Mrs. Arlesburgh again in The Blue Boy in Harrow. Cas, again, came straight to the point.

“I know the whereabouts of the money hidden by your cousin”, he said. “And loath though I am to say it, you were not completely honest with us, madam.”

She looked shocked at that.

“I assure you, I told you everything”, she said starchily.

“Except about Mr. Alexander Felton's small service to you”, Cas said. “Concerning the necklace you are wearing today.”

She smiled reminiscently.

“It was something my husband purchased for me years ago, well before we could afford anything real. Twenty-four stones, because I met him at that age. All cheap rhinestones of course, but I loved it even if some of my friends thought it too showy.”

“And did your cousin ever have hold of it” Cas asked.

“No...... oh.”

She suddenly looked rather embarrassed. Cas smiled reassuringly at her.

“He took it in to have it repaired, did he not?” he said quietly.

“Yes”, she said, looking uncertainly at him. “But how did you know that?”

“Because that was after the robbery, and he had a copy made at the same time”, Cas said. “Except his copy, for which he paid some six thousand pounds sterling, had real gems in it. And that, madam, is what you have been wearing around your neck all this time. Six thousand pounds worth of jewellery.”

She looked like she was going to faint, but she rallied, and quickly unclasped her necklace.

“Take it!” she urged.

Cas took it, and pulled the jewellery case from the cottage out of his pocket, swapping the necklaces over and handing the fake one back to Mrs. Arlesburgh. She took it gratefully and put it on.

“You did not find anything else of interest?” she asked.

“Only this bent silver sixpence”, Cas said, showing it to her.

To the surprise of both of us, she smiled at it, then reached into her purse and produced a sealed letter.

“Alexander told me nothing”, she said. “Except that if ever anyone produced a bent sixpence to me, I was to hand them this.”

Cas took the letter, opened it and read it all the way through. Then he blushed fiercely. Curiously, I took it from him and read it myself:

'Dear Mr. Novak,

The fact you're reading this says two things, don't it? First, I'm paying for my crimes, and second, you've found the loot. I knew you were the only guy in London I could trust to do right by young Gladys. Mary-Anne is a good stick and her husband is all right I suppose, but a girl with that much money needs a powerful man keeping a distant eye on her in this day and age, at least until she can look after herself. I've read all the stories your doctor friend writes about you both, and I know I can trust you. The cops might follow the law, but you follows justice.

All the best from Hell.

Alexander Felton (deceased)'

I stared at Cas.

“He knew”, I said slowly. My friend nodded, and handed a small card to Mrs. Arlesburgh.

“Any time either you or young Gladys need me”, he said. “Any time, just call.”

+~+~+

In our next case, I would discover that friendship came in many forms......


	9. Case 51: Salvation (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'A Case Of Identity'.

I

It was still the month of May when we encountered our next case, and it arose indirectly out of the events described in 'Bedtime Stories'. Cas of course kept his word and declined the offer from the bank of a reward for the money's recovery, asking them to place the money in trust for young Gladys Felton. He received a most effusive congratulatory letter from Mrs. Arlesburgh for those actions, which I recall made him blush heartily.

The case was, as we had all hoped, instrumental in securing Henriksen's promotion to the rank of Inspector. That promotion meant that there was a vacancy for sergeant at our friend's station, and it was filled immediately by a man who wanted to transfer in from Upminster in Essex, as he had just married a London omega and wished to move to the area. And this young alpha, Sergeant Baldur, brought with him a most curious case. It also coincided with an event in my own life which very nearly wrecked everything I held dear!

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur (I shall not reveal his surname as his family had disinherited him for becoming a policeman, and he hence preferred his Christian name) called on us one day very soon after taking up his new position. He was a tall, blond man, strikingly handsome to an extent that had Mrs. Harvelle covertly mock-swooning after she had brought him up to our rooms (as if Cas wasn't bad enough in that department!). I thought that as far as his Nordic Christian name went, he was aptly named.

“I must tell you, gentlemen”, he said in a mellifluous tone, “that the case I lay before you today is not even one I was personally involved in. My superiors kindly gave me a week off to arrange my moving house and getting married, and this case – or the Upminster element of it – broke during that time. But the doctor here publishes cases that are often fascinating in one aspect or another, and something about this case is decidedly strange.”

Cas pressed his fingers together, and looked across at our guest.

“I am most intrigued”, he said. “Pray continue.”

“The case revolves around a man called Septimus Baverstock", our guest continued, “and I must start my story some ten years ago. Mr. Baverstock, an alpha, unusually had four beta sons; Abraham, Elijah, Isaiah and Obadiah. He was possessed of a huge estate in the Wiltshire village that bears his name which, had it been sold and apportioned equally, would have adequately provided for all four sons. Unfortunately – for just about everyone as matters developed – the terms of inheritance were fixed in that virtually the whole estate had to pass to one person, and that the current holder of the title got to choose that person.”

“That could only lead to trouble”, Cas observed.

“Indeed”, the sergeant said. “As each boy came of age, their father placed at their disposal an identical sum of money. It quickly became clear that he was testing his sons, so as to decide which one should eventually inherit the whole estate.”

“That was cruel”, I said reprovingly. The sergeant nodded.

“It proved too much for the second son, Elijah, who used his money for criminal ends in an attempt to 'get rich quick', as they say. He then tried to steal from the estate to replace his losses, and when his father found out, he banished him. Elijah Baverstock left the country for Australia.”

“But he has returned?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, the sergeant said. “Added to which, the events of the past few weeks have been both dramatic and worrying. Two weeks ago, Septimus Baverstock died from a fall in his house, where he lived alone except for the servants. One thing was strange about his death; he was known to be violently allergic to cats, yet when the local policeman broke into the house, a cat rushed past him. The old man had apparently fallen down the stairs.”

“Apparently?” Cas asked.

“Three more deaths since suggest it may not have been an accident”, the sergeant said gravely. “First, Mr. Abraham Baverstock was shot whilst waiting for a train at his home railway station of Dean, near Salisbury. And just two days after that, Mr. Isaiah Baverstock was found dead in his bedroom in London. Someone had left the gas on, and he had suffocated.”

“And I suppose Mr. Obadiah Baverstock has also met his maker in suspicious circumstances”, I said wryly.

To my surprise the sergeant shook his head.

“Very nearly”, he said. “He is the one who lived in Upminster, and he had a very narrow escape. He had just moved into lodgings with a Mrs. Keswick when a man called asking to see a 'Mr. Barstock'. It so chanced that there was a beta living in one of the other rooms called Mr. Norman Bostock, and the maid he spoke to thought that was the name asked for, so directed him to room two rather than room five. The following day, Mr. Bostock was found shot dead in an alley just off his way to his work as a bank clerk.”

“And Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?” Cas asked.

“He has gone to his late father's house in Wiltshire, where he has a round-the-clock police guard.”

“That will not stop a determined killer”, Cas said sharply. “You said that Mr. Elijah Baverstock was back in the country?”

“We checked round the shipping offices, and one of them confirmed that he left Melbourne a couple of months ago”, the sergeant said. “He was recorded as a passenger on a ship that docked at Plymouth just days before his father's death. And he was staying in the village when his father died, although not at the house.”

I was suspicious. This all seemed almost too obvious.

“Naturally he was invited in for questioning”, the sergeant continued. “He said his father had sent him a telegram from England asking him to come home and he was able to produce it for us. We questioned Mr. Obadiah Baverstock about that, and he admitted – reluctantly, I thought – that old Septimus Baverstock had wanted a reconciliation. But he also said he thought that the telegram was a fake.”

How would he know that?" I asked.

"Mr. Obadiah said that his father had a word fetish - I know! - about the spelling of the word 'exercise'", the sergeant explained. "In the telegram it was spelt with an 's', but Mr. Obadiah said his father always spelt it with a 'z'. We later found a latter in the old man's desk that confirmed that, as much as it could be confirmed."

“And Mr. Elijah disappeared soon afterwards?” I hazarded. The sergeant nodded.

“His landlady in the village said he claimed that someone had broken into his room, but I think that was just bunkum”, he said. “Of course he hasn't been seen since.”

“What are Mr. Obadiah's plans?” I asked.

“To sell up and get out as quickly as possible”, the sergeant said. “Unfortunately a clause in the will means he does not actually inherit until a month and a day after his father's death, so he still has at least two weeks to go.”

“And to stay alive”, I added. 

Cas seemed lost in thought. We both waited for him to speak.

“I think it would be a good idea to interview the landlady in Upminster – Mrs. Keswick, you called her. Then we might go down to Wiltshire. There is no immediate hurry if Mr. Obadiah cannot sell up for two weeks, as you have said.”

“Unless his brother gets to him first”, I pointed out.

“Oh, I fully expect there to be an attempt on Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's life over the next two weeks”, Cas said casually. 

“What?” the sergeant almost exploded.

“Calm down”, Cas said soothingly. “I sincerely doubt it will succeed. No, our first priority is to see poor Mrs. Keswick.”

“Why do you call her 'poor'?” I asked, curiously.

Cas looked askance at me.

“Would you wish to stay in a boarding-house where people get murdered?” he asked.

“Good point”, I muttered.

II

Sergeant Baldur managed to arrange for us to visit Mrs. Keswick two days after his call. I was surprised to enter our main room that morning to find Cas asleep in the fireside chair, though when I woke him, I quickly discovered why. He looked awful.

“You have gastroenteritis”, I said, after a quick examination. “Lots of fluids, no alcohol, lots of rest.”

He tried to croak something at me, but his voice had all but gone, and instead he pointed feebly to the calendar.

“I know we were meeting Mrs Keswick today, but you cannot go in this state”, I said firmly. “No!” when he looked set to protest. “Mrs. Harvelle can bring you up your liquids, and you can write down the questions you wanted to ask Mrs. Keswick. And yes, I will make sure I put them exactly as you phrase them.”

He smiled weakly at me, and gestured for a notepad and pencil. I placed both by his side, and went downstairs to tell our gracious landlady that she had an invalid on her hands, at least until I returned. 

+~+~+

Mrs. Emily Keswick's house lay in Athelstan Mews, some little way south of Euston Station. It was a well-to-do area, and I noted at once the large 'Rooms To Let' sign in the window of her house, number seventeen. A maid admitted me, and I was quickly shown up to the lady's room. 

Mrs. Keswick was clearly a lady of quality, as she refrained from any disappointment that it was only I who was visiting her, not the great Mr. Castiel Novak himself. After she had expressed wishes for his swift recovery, I turned to the questions Cas had written for me.

“These are the things my friend wished to ask you”, I said. “First, he wanted as complete a description as possible of the two men involved in the case, as well as the potential murderer.”

She shuddered at that word.

“It is difficult”, she said (and thankfully she had the grace to speak slowly so I could note down her words) “because I saw all three only briefly. Mr. Bostock moved in only the week before, I recall. He was young, well presented and eager to please. Quite friendly, he would talk about anything and everything. He mentioned that he was courting a young lady in the area, but he did not mention her name.”

She let me catch up with my notes before continuing. 

“Mr. Baverstock was quite the opposite”, she said, with a faint shudder. “I would not go as far to call him rude per se, but he seemed to have very little time for anyone. He was about forty, and seemed to suffer from arthritis.”

I looked up from my notes, distracted.

“'Seemed to suffer'?” I asked. She nodded. 

“He always shuffled everywhere, but one day I happened to hear him coming down the stairs, and he was walking quite normally”, she said. “I personally think he played it up so he could be more miserable!”

I smiled at that, and finished writing.

“The man who called was also young, and he spoke very little”, she said, remembering. “It was a hot day, yet he was covered up with layer after layer. And he had a tan.”

“How do you know that if he was covered up?” I queried. 

“That was the other thing that struck me as odd”, she said. “He spoke to a maid who was cleaning the front room - she had the big bay window open at the time – and she told him that Mr. Bostock lived in room two. When he left, that was when I saw him from my own window. He had taken his gloves off, and his hands were sunburnt. He was thin, and I suppose upon reflection that I may be presuming his age, although he certainly moved very quickly. Bessie thought he was young.”

“And Mr. Bostock was not in his room at the time?” I asked. 

“I had thought he was, but he must have gone out without me seeing him.”

She sounded aggravated that one of her tenants had 'slipped his leash'. I suppressed a smile as I caught up with my notes.

“Did Mr. Bostock and Mr. Baverstock ever meet?” I said, asking Cas' next question.

“Not to my knowledge”, she said. “My tenants have their meals served in their own rooms, and the layout of the building is such that Mr. Baverstock had his own exit at the back into Æthelflaed Mews, which he seemed to prefer to the front door. They certainly had nothing in common except, unfortunately, their similar names.”

I wrote that down, then hesitated.

“Mrs. Keswick”, I said, “I would like to thank you for your answers to my friend's questions thus far. He had one more question, but he asked me to forewarn you that it is of a slightly personal nature. If you find it intrusive or just do not wish to answer it, please say so immediately.”

“Of course”, she said, looking nervously at me.

“How has business been since Mr. Baverstock moved out?” I asked.

For an awful moment I thought she was about to break down in tears, but she managed to hold things together, though it took a visible effort. 

“Awful!” she admitted. “Three of my four other tenants have moved out, and I am sure Miss Forrest is only staying because she cannot afford anything else that is so near her work at the railway station.”

“Thank you”, I said. “I promise we will keep you informed as to developments in the case.”

III

I reported my findings to Cas when I returned, not so much because I wanted to, but because I felt he would be unhappy at me keeping things from him just because I felt he was too ill. He had only one request arising from my visit and it was much what I had expected; I was to send a telegram from him to his brother Balthazar, to ask him to covertly assist Mrs. Keswick until the fuss had died down.

Cas' recovery was slower than I had hoped, and I returned four days later after having had to travel all the way into Surrey to see one rich (and obnoxious) patient, to find that he had fallen asleep in the fireside chair. I smiled and pulled up the blanket which had slipped down off of him, and stoked up the fire. Then I turned round – and saw something on the floor which made my heart sink.

Moving quietly, I went downstairs and asked Mrs. Harvelle if any visitors had come to our apartment since I had left that morning. On being answered in the negative my blood duly boiled, but I thanked her and went quietly back upstairs, where Cas was still sleeping. He continued to doze for another hour, and I was finishing a late tea when he finally awoke. I went across and pressed the bell.

“Mrs. Harvelle has been keeping something warm for you”, I said. “Doubtless she will bring it up in a few minutes.”

He looked around the room for a moment, apparently confused, before smiling and approaching the table. I waited until he had sat down before pouncing. 

“Did you have a good day today?” I asked.

“It'll be better when I can get on with this case again”, he muttered. 

“Where did you go?”

He froze, and looked at me guiltily.

“Pardon?”

“Where did you go? I know you went out today, despite my telling you not to. There is a small mud-patch on the carpet by the door that was not there this morning.”

He stared at the tablecloth, clearly ashamed at having been caught out.

“I went to see someone who Balthazar found for me”, he muttered, still not looking at me. “I needed him to do something before going to Wiltshire.”

It was rare indeed that I felt superior to the great detective, and I am ashamed to say that I did milk the moment somewhat. I stared at him for a while before quitting the table and taking my own seat by the fire, which I poked viciously.

“I wish you had trusted me”, I said quietly. “I do not mind you getting out for a short walk perhaps, but the fact that you did so without clearing it with me.....”

I was unaware that he had left the table and moved to beside my chair, and I almost jumped at his appearance. 

“I would trust you with my life”, he said quietly. “But I have to go to Wiltshire soon, and I needed something in place beforehand. I am sorry, friend.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, and although I was still feeling moody enough to continue my huff, he was still a sick man, and he was my friend. 

“I understand”, I said stiffly. “But I'm going with you, and if you show any sign of being unwell, it's straight back to London for you!”

“I promise to follow my doctor's orders”, he smiled.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Harvelle entered with Cas' evening meal (not one of the maids, I noticed, which meant that she was keeping an eye on him). She was obviously aware that there was an unusual tension in the room, but God bless the woman, she refrained from commenting on it, loaded up her tray with my dirty dishes and left us alone.

+~+~+

It was two more days before I judged Cas well enough to travel. I had expected him to push to go sooner, but my catching him out seemed to have shocked him into submission, and he did not utter a single word of complaint.

The day before we went was a day I had off from the surgery, but had agreed to visit three patients at their own homes. It was the third of these that was to cause me no end of trouble.

Fairwater Mews was a small road off Regent Street, a quiet little cul-de-sac with just a few quite expensive-looking houses. My patient, a Mr. Lionel Henderson, was at number five, and I duly knocked and was shown in by a footman, who took me to the gentleman's bedroom. To my surprise he stopped some distance from the door and gestured silently for me to go on alone. A little perturbed, I knocked, and on hearing a call to enter, did so.

My first reaction was to realize how light-headed I had suddenly become, before my professionalism tried to kick in. I immediately thought 'omega in heat', but clearly this Mr. Henderson was something more. I quickly grabbed the nose-plugs from my bag and fitted them; even so, the scent was almost overpowering.

Mr. Lionel Henderson was lying on his bed, totally naked. He was a young, muscular blond omega, quite handsome I supposed, and judging from the slick that was covering the extra blankets he was lying on, very much in heat. Of course my gut alpha instinct was telling me to claim and mate with this omega, but I held back. The scent was somehow forcing its way past my nose-plugs, but I still had to examine the man. He was my patient.

The omega moaned in agony, and gritting my teeth, I began. Despite the assault on my senses, I tried to keep my professionalism intact, and I soon spotted something that was rather odd. Although the man was generating enough slick to launch a battleship, he was not exhibiting all the symptoms of an omega in heat. His temperature was up, but his eyes looked normal, and his sweat, which would normally have smelled the same as his slick, was just human sweat. He whined, and grabbed hold of me.

“Mate!” he groaned.

I all but threw him back onto the bed and stepped out of reach. He looked pitifully up at me, and I was about to snap at him when it hit me. Only one sub-gender generated slick without same-scented sweat; omicrons, colloquially known as 'human cuckoos. They were few in number, but always found employment, mostly by people who wanted to test whether an alpha or beta was faithful to their mate. Their slick was irresistible to un-mated alphas and betas, but.....

Two things hit me in quick succession. First, I was now close enough to Cas to count as mated, which was why the omicron had limited effect on me. And second, this was a trap. Ignoring the scent and powered by sheer fury, I recrossed the room and grabbed hold of the man, who shook in terror. I do not think I was ever closer to striking a patient.

“Tell whoever set you up to do this that they failed!” I snapped. “And if I ever find them.... God help them!”

I stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard I was surprised I did not break it. More the pity.

IV

Getting to the village of Baverstock from London reminded me of the wonders of the modern age. I had experienced stagecoach travel but once in my life, and such a bone-shaking experience should be restricted to fairgrounds. And that was with the 'luxury' of an inside seat! I wondered idly what would one day replace the trustworthy steam train, as we sped along the line from Waterloo to the cathedral city of Salisbury. Hopefully not one of those strange 'horseless carriages' or 'automobiles' that were driven by a petrol motor, which I had read a certain Mr. Karl Benz was now manufacturing in Germany. They seemed positively dangerous!

Cas looked a lot better today, though I silently determined that he was still resting once we got back to London. We changed at Salisbury for a local train, and got out two stops later at Dinton, the nearest we could get to Baverstock. From the station it was a gentle cab ride through the Wiltshire countryside, until we arrived at the gates of Baverstock Hall. A policeman was standing guard there, and I was a little concerned that he did not even look up from his newspaper until we were almost upon him. If this was the level of 'protection' that Mr. Obadiah Baverstock enjoyed, then he might well not live to come into his inheritance. 

There was a second policeman at the house door, which was a little better, and we were shown into the main room where a third policeman was trying to calm a clearly over-excited beta. The policeman looked up as we entered, and I could swear there was gratitude in that look.

“Constable George Kennedy”, he said. “You must be the gentlemen from London. Thank heavens you are both here””

“Has something happened?” I asked anxiously.

“My brother is in the village!” the little man almost shrieked. “He is less than a mile from here, and these policemen do nothing!”

“English law does tend to frown on its officers arresting people merely because they are under suspicion”, Cas said airily. “Some trifling nonsense called Magna Carta, if I recall correctly. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?”

“Not for much longer, if I get murdered”, the man grumbled. 

“A man has been reported asking questions about the new lord in the great house”, Constable Kennedy explained. “Fred down at the Dog and Duck came and told me; he thought it was important when the guy came two days in a row. We posted a man in the place there today, but he didn't show.”

Waiting in a pub all day, I thought wryly. Nice work if you can get it!

“So your brother is in the area?” Cas said to Mr. Baverstock. “Excellent!”

The man stared back at him in confusion.

“How precisely is that 'excellent'?” he asked testily. 

“Tell me”, Cas said, “is it true that in the event of your death, the estate goes to your brother?”

The man hesitated before answering.

“Yes”, he said. 

Even I could see the uncertainty in his voice. Cas was straight onto it.

“But?” he prompted.

“The rules of the estate allowed my father to bequeath the whole thing, except for minor bequests to servants, to just one of his sons”, Mr. Baverstock explained. “Father and the family lawyer had to make the choice between them, but if there was only one son left, then he got everything.”

“And the estate has to be kept in the Baverstock family?” Cas asked.

“Of course”, the man said, clearly confused. 

Cas smiled at him. 

“I must be brutally frank with you, Mr. Baverstock”, he said. “In cases like this, the would-be murderer has all the advantages. He can pick the time and place of his attack, whilst those defending the target must be on guard all the time and everywhere. I had thought our only advantage was that the attack would have to come before the month is up, and that still leaves us over a week. But with what you have told me, we can force your attacker's hand.”

“How so?”, Mr. Baverstock asked, clearly puzzled.

Cas turned to the constable. 

“You will tell your fellow officers that the two gentlemen who have arrived today have brought news of Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's adopted son Oliver, recently arrived from the North to London, and that the new lord of the manor is planning to use the powers of the estate to will everything to him”, Cas said. “You will do everything in your power to spread it around the village that Mr. Baverstock is expecting the family lawyer down tomorrow afternoon, and since his son is safely in hiding, he himself will be perfectly safe once the document is signed. I have no doubt that if that man at the inn was your brother, he will maintain a presence in the village, and the news will swiftly reach him. He will have but one night to react.”

He turned back to our host.

“This involves no danger for you, sir”, he said. “You must spend the night locked away at the back of the house. I will pretend to be you in your bed, with the window slightly open. I will be armed, as will the doctor, who will stand guard outside the window.....”

“No!” Mr. Baverstock said, much to my surprise. “This is my brother trying to kill me, and in my own house. You may hide behind the screen in my room, but I will be in my own bed. And armed.”

I fully expected Cas to object to that, but to my surprise he merely nodded. 

“One must always respect that an Englishman's home is his castle”, he said sonorously. “Very well. Though I doubt the gun will be needed. I do not think your attacker would risk waking someone with a gunshot.”

“We shall see!” Mr. Baverstock said grimly.

+~+~+

I was fortunate that the laundry-room at the back of the house offered an excellent view of the slightly open bedroom window, so I had some shelter for my vigil. I knew that one of the other constables was on the roof, watching for anyone approaching the house, and a second one was patrolling the grounds, Constable Kennedy being inside the house in the room adjoining Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. 

Idiot, I thought, as the patrolling constable was caught in the moonlight, albeit against the wall next to the one with the open window. I stared again at that window; it was on the first floor, but the house was covered in ivy, and I knew, having tried it earlier, that it would support the weight of a man..... 

My musings were interrupted by the sound of a sudden gunshot from inside the house, and a cry of pain from the open window. 

V

I gasped. How on earth had the man gotten in? I tore round to the front door, opening it with the key I had been given earlier and racing up the stairs two at a time until I reached Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. And there, lying prone and bleeding on the floor, was... a policeman?

I stared in confusion. Next to me, Cas sighed.

“He did not have a gun, Mr. Baverstock”, he said patiently.

“He could have had a knife”, the man said petulantly. “I have the right to defend myself.”

Constable Kennedy burst into the room, followed quickly by his two fellow policemen. I frowned. I had been sure there were only three officers keeping guard.

“The attacker dressed himself as a policeman”, Cas explained, pointing to the body on the floor. He was still breathing, though it was very ragged. Cas gently turned him over, and Mr. Baverstock nodded.

“Elijah.”

“Well, that just about wraps it up!”, Constable Kennedy beamed. “Let's get him down to the station.”

“May I?” Cas asked, gesturing to the handcuffs the young constable had produced. He looked puzzled, but handed them over.

“I suppose so”, he said. 

Cas went to move back to the prone man, and in doing so he passed Mr. Obadiah Baverstock. There was a sudden click, and our host was handcuffed. The policeman stared at Cas as if he had gone mad.

“You want me to apprehend the victim?” Constable Kennedy gasped.

Cas smiled.

“Oh no”, he said. “I want you to take in a killer. This man has killed four times and tonight attempted a fifth murder. Gentlemen, may I present a man of many names, one of the latest of which was Mr. Norman Bostock.”

I do not think I have ever seen a transformation such as the one which befell the handcuffed man's features. He went from puzzled captive to enraged bull, and it took the strength of all three officers to hold him down.

“I was so bloody close!” he snarled. “But at least I put an end to a line of useless toffs like this bunch!”

Cas shook his head and leaned over to the prone man who, to my surprise, got up without any help. Only then did I recognize the red spot on his white shirt for fake blood. He grinned at Cas. 

“I do not let potential suspects wield guns in my cases”, Cas said to the prisoner. “At least, not unless I have made certain that they only carry blanks.”

The prisoner screamed in frustration and tried to launch himself at Cas, and it took the policemen some time to drag him away. I stared after them all in amazement.

“Come”, Cas said with a smile, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I think the soon-to-be new owner of this ancestral pile might be treating us all to a drink.”

“Or four!” I muttered.

+~+~+

“It was coincidence at first”, Cas began. “Mr. Norman Bostock, or whatever his real name is, was a friend of Mr. Obadiah Baverstock, and he chanced to learn of the terms of that evil will. He saw an excellent chance to replace his 'friend', inherit the estate and become rich beyond his wildest dreams.”

We were sat downstairs, each of us needing a stiff drink after I had given Mr. Elijah Baverstock a quick check-up. The man's shirt was ruined, but somehow I suspected he did not mind that.

“Bostock knows Mr. Elijah here is abroad, and that if there were to be any suspicious deaths, then he would have an obvious motive”, Cas went on. “He fakes a message from Septimus Baverstock recalling the wayward son, and once the latter is back in England, only then do the deaths start. He is also careful to ensure they are only carried out when Mr. Elijah does not have an alibi. Thus Septimus, Abraham and Isaiah Baverstock are rapidly dispatched into the next world.”

“On the pretext of keeping his 'friend' safe, he persuades the man to move lodgings, himself taking a room at the same establishment under a similar name. Quite probably they were to move again soon afterwards, except Bostock's plans involved moving his 'friend' into the next world along with the rest of his family, and then assuming his identity. The stranger who called was of course he himself, and he murdered poor Obadiah soon after, making it look like 'Norman Bostock' was killed in error. I was struck by Mrs. Keswick's descriptions of the men as being so very different; it sounded like we were almost being encouraged to take in those differences. Bostock only had to continue the pretence for another couple of weeks, and all would be well.”

“Suspecting what I did, I laid a trap for him. I found Mr. Elijah here and persuaded him to visit the village and ask a lot of questions. As I had foretold, news of that quickly reached the impostor. At first he was horrified, but my offer of a trap seemed an excellent way out. He could shoot dead the only man who could identify him as an impostor whilst claiming self-defence, and he would be home free. Instead of which, he is looking to the long drop at the end of a short rope.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Novak”, our host said. “It has been more of an experience returning to the Old Country than I would ever have expected, and I hope to return to New South Wales as soon as the whole estate is cleared up.”

“And now we must adjourn to our beds”, Cas said with a sigh, “or my doctor will be laying down the law to me about over-exerting myself. He is such a tyrant, you know!

I scowled at him. 

VI

My plans for Cas to enjoy a rest in London were not to be. It was dark when we reached Baker Street, and there was a quality carriage parked outside. Not Mr. Balthazar Novak's, I was relieved to note, although I did not recognize it.

“He is here”, Cas said shortly. “Good.”

My friend did not elucidate as to whom 'he' was, but led the way upstairs and into our rooms. A tall, muscular alpha was standing by the blazing fire, blond and blue-eyed. He looked at Cas uncertainly.

“You fool!” Cas snapped. 

I looked at him in surprise. He sighed.

“Dean, meet my brother Lucifer, the black sheep of the family” he said flatly. “He was the one behind your somewhat unusual patient of late. The omicron.”

I almost asked how he knew, but did not. He always knew. 

“Omicron scent is quite unique”, Cas explained. “When you came back, I checked your patient notes, and saw you had none for your third call. Luke here was testing you to see whether you were faithful to me. A little rich, as we cannot be married!”

“You might as well be”, Lucifer Novak drawled. “I may not like my family, doctor, but I have a soft spot for the littlest angel. Balthazar and Gabriel so often made their own misgivings about you clear to the rest of us that I had to be sure.”

“It was beneath even you!” Cas snapped. “But you have your answer. Dean is mine, and I am his.”

Do not preen, do not preen, do not preen....

“You know Father and Mother still entertain hopes that you will find a girl or an omega and mate with them one day”, Lucifer said, and I could see he was picking his words carefully. “They hope.....”

Cas slammed down his fist on the table, which shuddered at the impact.

“Understand this, brother”, he said sharply. “As long as Dean draws breath, as long as he will have me, I am his. There will never be anyone else for me, never! Whatever you and they do, that's the way it is. And if you or they try anything else, then I am cutting off all contact with you. All of you!”

He shook slightly, and I could see that his anger had drained him. I was by him in a flash, steadying him whilst looking hard at our visitor. Lucifer nodded.

“I see”, he said slowly. “Then I wish you well, brother.”

He nodded to me and was gone from the room in several long strides. Cas all but slumped against me, and I half-led and half-carried him to his room, undressing him awkwardly and laying him in his bed.

“Dean”, he muttered sleepily.

“I am going nowhere”, I muttered, quickly divesting myself of my own clothing before sliding in behind him. Always, Cas. You are mine, and I am yours.”

He pulled me closer, and together we fell into a merciful sleep.

+~+~+

The strain on poor Cas grows only worse, as a face from his past resurfaces with a shocking piece of news......


	10. Case 52: I'm No Angel (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the Dundas Separation Case'.

I

Despite being named for the Angel of Thursday, I would have been the first to admit that the man I loved was no angel in real life. Though never with me, Cas could be positively vicious when angered, and at those times our coupling would be almost painful, as the great man strove for release from the constant pressure of his work whilst still clearly loving me. He would always apologize after, but even if I had to be careful when sitting down (or even moving) the following day(s), I knew that he truly loved me. Besides, the tender caresses that always ensued, as he strove to make me understand just how much he valued me, more than made up for it. I was more cherished than any mate in the whole of London Town, and I revelled in that fact.

The long hot summer of that year continued with no let-up in Cas' workload, and often times he would just crawl into bed with me and fall asleep next to me, cuddling up to me and even unconsciously scenting me. Sometimes we would couple the morning after, but he looked increasingly tired as the year progressed, and I considered trying to force him to take another holiday, even if it meant my taking time off from an increasingly busy surgery. A generous bequest had enabled us to expand into the adjoining house in Bloomsbury and take on two more full-time doctors, but the surge in demand for our services had more than outmatched our growth, and I myself was often left tired and exhausted by day's end. That and my literary efforts meant I was in little better shape than my friend, if truth be told.

It was at this relatively low point in both our lives that Cas received a terrible blow. It was the end of August, and a whole week had gone by with no major new cases. I had been getting hopeful that things might be turning the corner, so when his irritating brother Balthazar turned up one day at 221B, I groaned inwardly. I was also on edge as our visitor seemed unusually ruffled, and anything which would cause a man as powerful as him to look out of sorts could not be good.  
   
“It’s this damned Children’s Charter”, he grumbled, pulling himself closer to the fire. It had been a damp year thus far, and I had been concerned lest the unseasonable weather of the past week add to my friend's problems with a cold or flu. Fortunately there was no sign of that, thus far at least.  
   
“I thought you disapproved of the Salisbury government”, Cas said mildly, sipping his coffee. His brother scowled at him.  
   
“I disapprove of all politicians”, he said loftily. “But as a servant of the Crown, it is my sovereign duty to uphold governments of all hues, Liberal or Conservative. And this damned law is making it bloody difficult!”  
   
“I hardly think you have come here today to consult me on constitutional matters, brother”, Cas observed. “There is more to it than that.”  
   
His brother seemed to hesitate, and a cold feeling ran down my spine for some reason.  
   
“The case has caused a falling-out between one of the government ministers and his lady wife”, he said at last. “Their marriage was falling apart anyway, but this has been the final straw. And that in turn has split the cabinet; three of the other wives are openly supporting the lady. If she sues for divorce and he contests it as I expect, the case would be dynamite.”  
   
Cas stared at him warily. He too had picked up on his brother's nervousness.  
   
“I still do not see where I fit in”, he said warily.  
   
“I asked the lady to wait outside, hoping that you might speak with her”, Balthazar said, and my bad feeling increased by several notches. The tall blond man was not just nervous, he was clearly terrified of something. But what?  
   
“Then kindly show her in”, Cas said, rising slowly to his feet.  
   
I rose too. Balthazar went and pressed the bell, and what seemed like an age later Mrs. Harvelle opened the door and announced 'Lady Amelia Dundas.'  
   
I will never forget what happened next. Cas took one astonished look at the visitor, then walked across and slapped his brother hard on the face. The taller Novak did not even try to defend himself as the sound resounded around the room.  
   
“You bastard!” Cas yelled at him, before turning and marching to his room. We heard the unmistakable sound of the lock being turned, and I stared between our two guests in complete confusion.  
   
“Well”, Balthazar said, rubbing his reddened face, “that went about as well as I expected!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Cas?” I called tentatively.  
   
It was about half an hour later, and I was standing at the door to his room. His brother had taken Mrs. Dundas to a nearby restaurant, and Mrs. Harvelle – mercifully the soul of discretion – had retreated to her own rooms. We were alone.  
   
“They’ve gone”, I called. “It’s just me here now.”  
   
There was the sound of the door being unlocked, and I will never forget the next few moments. Cas duly emerged, and it was patently obvious that he had been crying. My dearest friend, the man I admired more than any other on the planet, had been crying. I didn’t hesitate but held out my arms, and he fell into them, the sobbing breaking out anew.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“I suppose that you would like an explanation.”  
   
I had never thought I would use the word, but my friend looked broken. It stuck me forcibly that he needed me to support him now, through whatever trials and tribulations the arrival of that lady had engendered. I reached across the table and gently placed a hand on his.  
   
“Whenever you are ready, and whatever you have to tell me, I will listen”, I said, with a calmness I was certainly not feeling. He shook, and stared down at where our hands were resting.  
   
“It is an unedifying tale”, he warned me. “I am afraid that you will think so much less of me as a man when you know all. And I value your opinion above all else.”  
   
“Everyone has skeletons in their cupboards”, I said firmly. “And the measure of a friend is one who stands by you no matter what. I will always be your friend, Cas. And so much more.”  
   
I thought for one horrible moment that I was about to set him off again, but he drew a ragged breath and shuddered again.  
   
“The lady you saw earlier – she and I were lovers.”  
   
I froze in shock, before I saw the hurt in those deep blue eyes of his. He needed me now, more than ever. I forced out a reassuring smile, and gripped his hand.  
   
“Tell me”, I said. “Tell me everything.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“It happened in the summer break the year before I met you in Oxford”, he began, and I could see how nervous he was. “I was nineteen years of age, an awkward teenager all elbows and poor clothes' choices. That was when I met and fell in love with a beautiful red-headed girl whose family had just moved into the square. Ours was a whirlwind romance, and I felt I had no other aim or purpose in life than to be man and wife with the beautiful Miss Amelia Everett.”  
   
I stared at him in shock. His eyes were bright with what I suspected were tears for what might have been. He swallowed before continuing.  
   
“Her father, William, was a fierce xenophobe, and when he found out I was secretly seeing his daughter, he demanded it stop. I was forbidden from ever seeing her again, and when I returned for Christmas break a few months later, she had gone.” He huffed a false laugh. “Later, I tried to get Balthazar to find her for me, but he said he could not. I see now that he was lying to protect her.”  
   
“Protect her?” I said scornfully. “From what? You are too much a gentleman to ever behave the way some of our so-called ‘high society’ handle themselves in this day and age.”  
   
He smiled at my vehemence.  
   
“You think too highly of me, my friend”, he said tiredly.  
   
“I know you”, I said stoutly, “and besides, the doctor is always right!”  
   
He chuckled at that.  
   
“You probably know more about the woman that could have become Mrs. Castiel Novak than I do”, he said with a sigh. “From all those society pages you never read.”  
   
I pouted in mock offence, and he chuckled again. It was good to hear that sound.  
   
“She is married to Lord Edgar Dundas, the government minister who sits in the Lords”, I said. “In fact……”  
   
With a terrible remorselessness, the facts I knew about our lady visitor clicked into place and.... oh hell! Oh no!

II  
   
Cas was staring at me curiously, and I winced. God, why did this have to be the one time my mouth ran off before my brain had got itself sorted out.  
   
“Doctor”, he said slowly. “What do you know?”  
   
I hesitated, but I had talked myself into this mess, and there was no way out other than to cause him even more pain. I braced myself.  
   
“He married the current Lady Dundas some years ago”, I said slowly, wishing that science had progressed enough for me to be miraculously transported anywhere else in the globe just now. “At the time the society pages remarked that they had had a brief relationship in their teenage years….”  
   
I stopped, not wanting to continue. His face had gone dark.  
   
“Go on”, he said heavily.  
   
“Her father opposed the match at the time, and his family moved to South Africa for the next few years”, I said nervously. “He came back a few months later for a short visit, and the newspapers noted that he had had a son, George. His wife in South Africa died giving birth to their second son, Philip. Only…..  
   
I stared at him pleadingly. Damn it, why couldn’t the great detective work this one out for himself?  
   
“The society pages noticed that young Amelia Everett had disappeared for a year just when her former paramour had left the country”, I said. “There was the subtlest hint – no evidence, of course – that young George might have been Amelia’s child, rather than the first Lady Dundas, and that Lord Dundas may have returned to England solely to, um, 'collect' him.”  
   
This was hellish. How could I ask him the obvious question, which was ‘did you….?’ But by the way in which his face suddenly went white, I had my answer.  
   
Possibly, just possibly, Cas had had a son. And I was about to make things even worse. Me and my big mouth.

“George Dundas died”, I said. “Scarlet fever when he was five, I think.”

Cas said nothing, and we sat there for some considerable time, my hand holding his.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“I have to see her.”  
   
It was the following day, and mercifully (if only for his own safety) Mr. Balthazar Novak had not shown his face around Baker Street. Cas was huddled beneath a weight of blankets in his favourite fireside chair, looking much older than his thirty-three years. I silently wept for him, but I knew I had to remain strong.  
   
“Would you like me to ask for her to come here?” I offered. I did not know whether to continue and suggest I could either leave or stay as he wished, but he looked pleadingly at me before answering, and somehow I knew.  
   
“Yes”, he said quietly.  
   
I reached for a notepad to send a telegram. It was a little warmer today, but Cas looked frozen in his own personal winter.  
   
+~+~+  
   
This case was going to break one or both of us, I thought to myself as we waited for the arrival of Lady Dundas, Cas’.... lover of years ago. Possibly even the mother of his son. The woman who, despite all this, had requested his help in sorting out a possible divorce. I had offered again to leave them alone, but the heartbreaking look he had given me made it clear that he wanted me there.  
   
This was awful!  
   
Lady Dundas arrived on time and Mrs. Harvelle herself showed her up, clearly brimming with curiosity but too well-bred to show it. The lady gracefully took a seat; she seemed as nervous as us both.  
   
“Hullo, Castiel”, she said nervously. I immediately bristled at her use of his Christian name.  
   
“Good afternoon, Lady Dundas”, Cas said, only a slight tremor in his voice betraying his emotion. “I understand you are requesting my help in securing a divorce from your husband?”  
   
She looked across at him, clearly understanding the unspoken message from the coolness in his voice.  
   
“I am still Amelia Everett, under all this finery”, she said quietly.  
   
“But I am no longer a teenage boy who was passed over for an English peer’s son”, Cas said bitterly.  
   
She hung her head. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.  
   
“I suppose I deserved that”, she said. “But before we start, there is something you should know.”  
   
I held my breath. This was surely about her son.  
   
It was.

III  
   
“The Dundases lied about George's date of birth”, she said. “It was actually August of 'Seventy-Five.”  
   
I did a quick calculation and sighed inwardly in relief. I had met Cas at Oxford at the start of the previous September, which meant that barring an elephantine pregnancy, the child could not have been his. Clearly, judging from the slight shake in his shoulders, he had worked it out too.”  
   
“I see”, he said quietly. “Pray continue as to how you think Doctor Winchester and I may be of service.”  
   
She nodded. The tension in the air seemed to ease a little.  
   
“I first met Edgar – Lord Dundas – in August, not long after I met you”, she said. “My father was opposed to the relationship - he had a fierce hatred of anyone not English.”

“That, I well remember”, Cas said bitterly. She blushed.

“Edgar being Scottish, my father hated him as much as he hated you”, she said. “However, I was a teenager, and certain that I knew best. Two months after you left for Oxford, we.....”

She trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“I assure you, Lady Dundas, there are some details that I do not wish to know”, Cas said coldly. “You had the child. Why did you and... this man not marry as soon as possible?”

“I discovered my pregnancy just after Christmas”, she said, “and of course my father was furious. He telegraphed Edgar, which was when I discovered that he had married a South African girl only a week earlier. I was forced to give the boy up to him, and my father made it clear that I was never to see or make contact with him. I heard nothing until he died of scarlet fever, just after his fifth birthday.”

“I am sorry for your loss”. Cas said flatly. “Pray explain how you did eventually marry your current husband.”

“My father died in 'Eighty-One, not long after poor George”, she said. “Edgar's wife had died in childbirth delivering his other son Philip, and he had just returned to England with him. He had at that time taken up his seat in the House of Lords, though he had not attained his current high position in the government. In light of what happened the following year, I did agree to marry him.”  
   
I was puzzled, but of course Cas knew.  
   
“The Married Women’s Property Act passed that year”, he said. “It enabled you to keep control of your own finances.”  
   
“Indeed”, she said. “That is the issue at hand. As I am sure you are aware, there has been friction between Edgar and myself over his totally unjustifiable opposition to the Children's Charter. But there is more. Earlier this year, there was a minor stock market panic, and I decided to spend some time reviewing my investments. I found that my husband had been secretly moving them from my name to his, and that I was virtually destitute!”  
   
“That is illegal”, I said. “You can sue him for that.”  
   
“I doubt that I could even afford a lawyer”, she said bitterly. “He has been very cunning, and would doubtless claim that I agreed to it at the time. Besides which, I wish for obvious reasons to divorce him, and that is difficult enough as it is.”  
   
“Unfairly, the onus is still on the wife to actually prove either unfaithfulness or cruelty on the husband’s behalf”, Cas said. “An obliging husband may claim to be having an affair, but we are to presume that would not apply in your case. I would have thought the offices of Balthazar would have been more efficient in pursuing your aims.”  
   
She blushed again.  
   
“I asked for your help”, she said, sounding nervous. “I know I treated you very badly, Castiel, but for those brief few summer months we were something. For the sake of what might have been, please help me!”  
   
Of course he was going to help her, I thought, a shade bitterly. She had treated him exceptionally badly, not even trying to maintain contact with him, but he was far too soft as touch to refuse a genuine plea for help. He deserved better than that.  
   
“I will help you”, he said eventually.  
   
“Thank you, Castiel”, she smiled.  
   
“But”, he said, his voice suddenly harsh, “all future communication will be via letter and telegram. I cannot forgive you for what you did to me, Lady Dundas. You were my first true love, and you broke my heart.”  
   
His voice broke as he finished, and he rose slowly to his feet, then walked to his bedroom and quietly shut the door. She stared unhappily after him, then sighed and bade me farewell.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Cas did not emerge for the rest of the evening, and he looked in decidedly poor shape (even by his usual morning standards) when he appeared the next day. He was clearly determined not to discuss the emotional events of the previous day, and I heartily concurred with that decision. I felt as if I had had my full quota of feelings for the next decade!  
   
“I need to dispatch a lot of telegrams and letters today”, he said as we sat at the breakfast table (I had long finished, but I brought my coffee back to the table to sit with him). “I have several possible lines of inquiry, and there may be more once I have read Balthazar’s file on the man.”  
   
“Are you going to interview him?” I asked.  
   
“No.”  
   
That did surprise me. I wondered instinctively if Cas was allowing his feelings for an old flame to edge him into taking sides. He obviously read my thoughts in my face, and sighed.  
   
“You think my judgment is suspect because of my past relationship with….. Lady Dundas”, he said.  
   
“I would wager my life on your judgment”, I said hotly. “I just do not see what he gains by refusing to provide his wife with a divorce; the publicity of the split will be bad for him one way or the other.”  
   
“Her money, at least in the short term until things are sorted out”, Cas said. “And thank you.”  
   
“What for?” I asked, puzzled.  
   
“Because everyone should have a friend who is prepared to speak unpalatable truths to them”, he said. “Whilst I am waiting for the dossier on Lord Dundas, I will institute some inquiries into.... his wife.”

IV

Proving that troubles rarely arrive singly, I had to leave Cas for a few days at this most inopportune moment. My brother Sammy had planned to marry his fiancée Jessica that July, and her uncle Horace, who was a reverend, was supposed to have conducted the service, only to come down with the same gastroenteritis that had affected Cas earlier that year. The result was that the wedding was postponed until he had fully recovered, which was now, September. I so did not want to go, leaving my friend at this terrible time, but I had no choice. I was more than a little shocked when I arrived to find that Jessica was pregnant and that I would soon become an uncle, but even that did little to avert my mind from my worries over my friend, and I took the earliest train back on the final Sunday that I could, pleading a need to catch up with my writings. I had a horrible feeling that they knew all too well the real reasons behind my distraction, but fortunately they refrained from remarking on it. Bearing in mind the many times I had teased my 'little' brother whilst growing up, I owed him for that.

Arriving back at Baker Street did not alleviate my worries at all, as Mrs. Harvelle immediately drew me aside and informed me that Cas had barely touched his meals during my absence. Fortunately, by this time in my life I was only working at the surgery from Mondays to Wednesdays, giving me four consecutive days for writing. I quickly hatched a plan, and agreed it with our landlady before going upstairs. And when I saw how tired Cas looked, I felt even more guilty at abandoning him at a time like this.

It had been mid-afternoon when I returned, and a few hours later Mrs. Harvelle sent up our tea. Cas did not even look up from his writing-desk when the maid entered, but once the food had been set out and she had gone, I went and stood by him.

“Come”, I said. “Tea is ready.”

“I'm not hungry”, he muttered, not even looking up.

Fortunately he had recently acquired one of those new swivel chairs, so I was able to spin him round to face me, much to his evident surprise. I placed a hand on each arm-rest and, for once, it was I invading his personal space. Well, at least whilst clothed.

“This is your doctor speaking”, I said firmly. “And your friend. You need to take better care of yourself, Castiel James Novak. And it's going to start with eating a full meal every evening. You and I are going to dine at the same time seven days a week, come hell or high water!”

He stared at me in confusion, before nodding and getting to his feet. I knew I had no real way of enforcing my proscription; although I was a little taller and more muscular than my friend, I knew that he was learned in the knowledge of several unarmed fighting skills in his time, and that in a straight fight I would never have a chance. Though I fervently prayed that such an event would never come to pass. He walked to the table and sat down, then lifted one of the covered dishes.

“Bacon for tea?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I asked Mrs. Harvelle to prepare something I thought you would like”, I said. I refrained from adding that I personally hated the way he liked his bacon, so crispy you could build a toy house out of it. He looked at me curiously, then smiled slightly.

That look always made me just melt.

+~+~+

There was a tense atmosphere in the house all the following week, as I watched my friend carefully for further signs of tiredness or ill health, and he seemed a little uneasy at being watched. I noted quickly that he was not taking on any new cases (except for a small matter concerning a friend of Mrs. Harvelle who lived a few doors down, which he quickly solved), although he did finish his remaining current cases. His brother's file on Lord Dundas had arrived, and he had spent many hours poring over it, though if he had found anything of interest he did not tell me. I would have felt excluded from the case, except for the other change that had happened after my return.

During my 'long weekends' of writing, I had fallen into the habit of taking a daily walk, because much as I loved our rooms in Baker Street, a change of air seemed to help me think more clearly. Cas was also often out and about on one matter or another and he also liked to read in his bedroom, so we did not usually see much of each other on these days, apart from our evening meal routine. However, after my return from seeing Sammy, things seemed to change for some reason. Cas asked if he could accompany me on my daily walks, and seemed to almost expect me to decline, which I would never have done. He was apologetic about using these excursions to do his own tasks of sending and receiving letters and telegrams, but I told him I did not mind where we went together. He also made far fewer trips out on his own, preferring to dispatch boys to the post and telegraph offices if he needed to reply to his communications, and rarely went into his own room to read, seemingly now preferring his fireside chair. I could not fathom any reason for this change; possibly the reappearance of his first love had unsettled him somewhat.

+~+~+

“I am expecting Lady Dundas today.”

Cas was lying on top of me, still panting slightly after our recent coupling. These events had become noticeably rarer of late; Cas seemed to prefer just being held close, and on non-work mornings I would bring our breakfasts into whichever bedroom we were in and we would spend hours there, me writing and him just cuddling against me. This case had led to his seeming to be uneasy any time he was away from me, and he also scented me much more than usual, which I found strange but which, because it was Cas, I allowed. We had coupled just after midnight, as today was his birthday, so I was surprised that he was seeing his former lover today.

“When?” I muttered sleepily, rubbing my hands down his back. He arched up and almost purred as I did so.

“About ten minutes' time”, he said.

I froze.

“Should we not be getting dressed?” I asked. “We shall not even have time to wash or shave.”

He nuzzled even closer to me.

“I want her to see us as we are”, he said. “Her of all people. She nearly destroyed me, and she....”

He trailed off. I gently moved him to lie beside me and kissed him. There was a lot of nonsense written about how straight-laced the Victorians were, but in reality we all knew full well about each others' indulgences and foibles. Unlike latter generations, we just did not feel the need to broadcast them to the world. 

“I love you”, I said, silently marvelling at just how easy the words were now. “My Cas. My perfect mate. I know you would do anything for me if I asked, even give up your morning coffee.”

There was suddenly an iron grip on my arm.

“Touch that, Winchester, and you're a dead man!”

I chuckled, and kissed him again.

V

We were at least fully clothed when Lady Dundas was announced. She took a seat by the fire and, unusually, Cas remained standing. The look she gave me told me she was all too aware of my status as regards her former lover. I did not glare evilly at her, but it was close.

“I do not wish to detain you long, Lady Dundas”, Cas said coolly, “but I have one or two things to tell you.”

“Is it good news?” she asked, sounding fearful.

“My research has revealed that it will not be possible for you to legally obtain a divorce from your husband”, he said flatly.

Her face fell.

“You think I will lose in court”, she said dully.

“No”, he said. “The reason is quite simple. You are not legally married.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“I do not understand.”

“This case has been all about lies”, he said, sounding unusually bitter. “One in particular concerns the first Lady Dundas who, Winchester told me, died giving birth to your husband's current heir, Philip.”

“She did”, Lady Dundas said.

“She did not”, Cas said firmly. “Following your father's death, Lord Dundas wished to marry you, as he deemed you far more suitable to be the wife of a peer of the realm. He paid off his first wife and spread the story about her dying in childbirth. The girl was apparently a little simple-minded, because her family accepted the payment on her behalf. She died three years ago, but that means that she was still alive at the time you 'married' Lord Dundas, so your union with him is bigamous, and therefore unlawful. I am certain that your husband would prefer to grant you an uncontested divorce once he knows that there is proof of his shameful behaviour.”

She beamed.

“That is wonderful news!” she smiled. “Thank you, Castiel.”

I felt a sudden sense of foreboding. His face had acquired that shuttered look again, the one he put on when he was masking some strong emotion.

“I also had cause to speak with one Mr. Silas Rosenstern”, he said.

I had no idea who was behind that name, but the effect on Lady Dundas was startling. She drew back from Cas as if burned. His blue eyes were cold as ice.

“I know all”, he said sharply. “I know how you and your father use the best forger in London Town to obtain not one but two documents concerning the birth of your first son, and that you had to show Mr. Rosenstern the real birth certificate before he would start on the forgeries you paid so dearly for. It is your exceptional ill luck that I not only use the man's services myself from time to time, but that I performed a small service for him as regards a private matter some years back. When I asked if he had had any dealings with you, he felt obligated to tell me all.”

She put her head in her hands and wept, but Cas remained unmoved.

“George Dundas was born in March of 'Seventy-Five”, he said bitterly. “Not five months later in August, as your claimed, which means he was conceived at least one month before you met Lord Dundas. George was my son, and you kept him from me.”

She continued to weep, and he did not move to comfort her. When he spoke again, his voice was if anything even colder.

“This case is concluded”, he said. “I will forward you a bill for services rendered. We shall not meet again. Good day, Lady Dundas.”

He walked quietly away to his room and closed the door behind him. Our visitor stood, looked once at me, then walked slowly to the door and left. I stared after her, then at the door on the other side of the room. Feeling in my pocket for what I knew was there, I walked across and knocked before entering.

“Some birthday!” he said bitterly. “A son I never knew, and never will know.”

“At least you know the truth”, I said consolingly. “I did get you a small present, Cas. I don't suppose there will be a good time, so you had better have it now.”

I handed him the small box, which thankfully I had had the foresight to get wrapped at the store (my own efforts always made it look as if it had repeatedly fallen out of a mail-bag!). He smiled at me, and unwrapped it, lifting the lid off the box. 

“Four blue ties”, he smiled. “Thank you. I shall wear them soon.”

“I was hoping you would do rather more than that”, I said shyly. 

He looked at me in confusion.

“Better than the rope you usually use to tie me to the bed”, I said, blushing a crimson red. “I thought you could do that, then wear one the following day, so when I look at it.....”

He chuckled.

“Dean Winchester, you are one kinky alpha!” he smiled. “But why wait till tonight?”

I grinned. Cas was happy, and that was all I cared for.

+~+~+

In our next case, Cas is asked by a jailed man's wife to clear his name, and does rather more.....


	11. Case 53: Malleus Maleficarum (1888)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the Etheridge case'.

I

This case began just after Cas' thirty-fourth birthday in late September of 'Eighty-Eight, and there was little indication at the time that it would drag on for two months, nor that it and concurrent events would come close to destroying my dear friend, a man still reeling from the shocking revelations wrought during the Dundas Separation Case. Ironically in hindsight, I recall hoping for a case of sufficient interest to take his mind off his recent travails. I should have remembered that old adage about being careful what you wish for – because you may well get it!

+~+~+

“Doctor”, Cas called from his position by the window”, what do you make of this?”

It was one week after the solution to the Dundas Separation Case, during which I had grown increasingly worried over my friend's health. As I mentioned in that story, our couplings had become fewer as Cas sought to solve the case involving his one-time lover, and I had begun to fear that the revelations from it had changed our relationship permanently, although I liked his sudden preference for cuddling and close contact quite a bit. Which was why, as mentioned, I had presented Cas with four blue ties for his birthday, with a suggestion as to how he might use them.

Which was also why his question was somewhat moot, as I was still tied to the bed, face down and barely able to move. I grunted into the pillow.

“How exactly do you expect me to come over there and look?” I asked, not unreasonably. 

He was suddenly right next to me.

“You're very cheeky”, he said quietly, “for a man about to be pounded into the middle of next week.”

I whined in a mixture of anticipation and dread. Ever since I had given him the ties, it had been like a damn had burst, and Cas had been sexually insatiable! The wonderful Mrs. Harvelle had slipped a note under the door on the first day (I still remember the agonizing pain when I bent over rather too quickly to retrieve it!) telling us to ring when we wanted our meals left on a tray outside our rooms, otherwise we would not be disturbed. That sort of thing was usually reserved for an omega in heat whose alpha had decided to mate him, but I had long ago decided that I had zero pride where Cas was concerned. If it had been possible, I would have undergone an operation to become an omega, just for him.

“What is it?” I asked, smiling as he quickly slipped off his dressing-gown and began to rub himself up and down my back, his cock teasing my backside.  
   
“A lady has walked up and down this road six times in the past fifteen minutes”, he observed, continuing to tease me as I lay helpless beneath him. “On the last occasion she passed all the way to the jeweller’s on the corner, yet she came back.”  
   
“Possibly a client?” I suggested, gasping as he began to finger me open. “Should we not......”

“She can wait”, he growled. “I cannot.”

This time it was just one finger before he pushed in, and went straight for my prostate. I writhed beneath him as he came in seconds, and I followed him swiftly over the edge, sighing contentedly. Unusually he did not slump across me as usual but got up and went back to the window, mercifully remembering to don his dressing-gown first. I did not want any of our neighbours, or anyone else on the planet for that matter, seeing the sheer beauty that was Cas naked.

“Oh”, he muttered. I turned my head and looked at him.

“Oh?” I echoed.

“Mrs. Harvelle has just returned from her walk, and has met the lady outside”, he said, walking over to his clothes. “Doubtless she will soon be sending a message up to see if we are able to receive her.”

“Um, Cas?” I ventured.

He looked at me curiously, and for one horrible minute I considered the possibility that he might actually leave me tied up whilst seeing the lady. Then I saw a smile creasing the corner of his mouth, and knew that he was playing me.

“Untie me”, I grunted. 

He did so, carefully putting away three of the ties but taking the fourth back to tie round his neck. I flexed my sore muscles and sighed in a put-upon way, as he dressed quickly. I turned to start dressing myself, and nearly jumped out of my skin when he appeared next to me.

“Tonight, it's my turn to be tied up!”

He left me still almost naked and having to face our potential new client whilst fighting down a suddenly reawakened Little Dean. Damn the man!

Though I smiled as I looked forward to that evening....

+~+~+

I was sat (yes, on a cushion, and shut up!) at the table when Mrs. Harvelle announced ‘Mrs. Agatha Etheridge’. The lady in question was about forty years of age and small in stature, though the fact she was clearly hunched up with nerves did not help. Indeed, I half-expected her to bolt for the door once Mrs. Harvelle was safely gone. That was until Cas spoke.  
   
“You are here to request my services, madam?”  
   
He guided her to the fireside chair opposite his own, and poured her a small sherry. Her eyes widened.  
   
“You clearly need this”, Cas said gently. “Courage, madam. If I can help you, I will.”  
   
“I don’t know if you can!” she blurted out. “It’s Bill…. my husband. They’re going to hang him!”  
   
“Why?” Cas asked.  
   
“Because of the robbery”, she said, still clearly nervous. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here! I can never afford a private detective. I must….”  
   
Cas shot out an arm and grasped her hand.  
   
“Madam”, he said.  
   
His voice was gentle but firm. I had often marvelled at how the female population seemed to want to either mother Cas or marry him, but this was another side to him. He was radiating reassurance, and it seemed to calm our visitor down (though the second sherry I poured her probably helped).  
   
“Mrs. Etheridge”, Cas said, “I wish for you to be honest with me. You are going to relax, marshal your thoughts, and then tell me everything you know about this case. Once I have all the facts, I will then tell you if I can be of service.”  
   
She nodded, swallowed once or twice, and seemed to relax just a little.  
   
“Thank you”, she said. “The police are convinced Bill is guilty – most of then, anyway, but that nice Inspector Henriksen suggested I should approach you, because if anyone can find out the truth, you can.”  
   
“I shall do my best”, Cas promised. “Please tell us both how this first began. Do not worry about the doctor; his notes are invaluable – when I can read them!”  
   
I snorted, and would have elevated it to a huff, but I knew from experience that any sudden bodily movement just now was inadvisable.  
   
“Bill worked for the Leviathan Bank, as a teller and clerk”, she began.  
   
“Stop!”

II  
   
She looked at Cas in surprise, and he shook an admonitory finger at her.  
   
“If I am to help you, Mrs. Etheridge, I must have the whole truth. Including the time your husband spent in prison.”  
   
She gaped.  
   
“How did you know?” she demanded.  
   
“Your hands.”  
   
She stared in confusion.  
   
“In addition to your wedding-ring, you have a faint ring-band on your finger”, Cas said. “The braided markings indicate that, until very recently, you wore the promise-ring of the Lazarus Society, which promotes the interests of reformed criminals. You took it off before coming here today, but the marking is quite distinct.”  
   
She reddened at having been caught out.  
   
“Before I met him, Bill did time for a gang robbery in Soho”, she admitted. “Two and a half years, and he was only roped in at the last minute, poor fool. But he’s been straight ever since he met me.”  
   
Has he? I wondered, but did not say.  
   
“The manager at his branch in Holborn, Mr. Chetwynd, has a brother who had done time, so he was open to accepting Bill ‘on trial’. He’d been there for over two years and they were pleased with his work, so they said. Until three weeks ago.”  
   
“What happened?” Cas asked.

“A month ago they were about to open up a new branch in St. Paul’s, their third one along with Bill's place and one in Westminster. That meant a lot of money being moved from the two existing branches to the new one. Bill was one of the few people told, because his desk is close by the strong-room entrance.”  
   
Cas quirked an eyebrow at that detail.  
   
“He was told on Friday the eighteenth; I remember it because it was the day before my sister’s birthday. He went into work on Monday the twenty-first, and I was surprised to receive a visitor at just before midday. It was Mr. Pullow, Bill’s boss and a rat, though I probably insult rats by saying that. Apparently Bill had triggered the alarm on the strong-room door, and he was now locked in. They were drilling air-holes for him, just in case, and hoped to have broken through the wall by close of business. The door had a timer-lock, he said. So I decided to go to the bank before closing-time to see if he was free.”  
   
“I remember Mr. Pullow muttering that the man had been in there for five hours with their money. Insufferable man! I was there another half-hour before they broke through – Mr. Chetwynd kindly let me stay – and when they finally did….”  
   
She stopped. We stared at her expectantly.  
   
“Nothing.”  
   
“Nothing?” Cas asked.  
   
“No money, no Bill – and no wall; someone had dug a great big hole through from the basement next door.”  
   
Cas frowned.  
   
“I can see one problem straight away”, he said. “Digging through from another house’s basement would take some weeks, at least, as it could only be done at night when there is less danger of it being overheard. That implies that it was an inside job – someone at the bank who knew there was more money than usual in the strong-room.”  
   
“And they think that someone is Bill!” she said, angrily. “But I haven’t told you the oddest part of this whole story yet.”  
   
“Go on”, Cas urged.  
   
“They found Bill last week”, she said. “In Marseilles!”  
   
We both stared at her dumbfounded.  
   
“The French port on the Mediterranean?” I asked, wondering if there was some other ‘Marseilles’ that I had hitherto been unaware of.  
   
“Yes”, she said. “He had no memory of the robbery or anything. In fact, when they finally let me see him once he was back here, he thought we were still dating!”  
   
“Perhaps one might be grateful that he remembered you at all”, Cas said. “Memory loss is unpredictable at the best of times, but if he remembers that much, then he should not regress and may improve. The Leviathan Bank’s Holborn branch is in Southampton Place, if I remember correctly?”  
   
She nodded.  
   
“And you and Mr. Etheridge reside where, pray?”  
   
“We have lodgings north of the Temple. Luckily it is just close enough for Bill to walk to work, Or at least it was.”  
   
“Do you know who else at the bank knew about the transfer of money to the new branch”, Cas asked, “apart from your husband and the two managers?”  
   
“Bill said that the managers had told everyone else that there was only a small amount of extra money in the safe”, she said. “The only other person who knew the truth was Mr. Jonathan Gray, the senior clerk.”  
   
“Your tone suggests you do not like him much”, Cas offered.  
   
“He thinks criminals can never reform”, she said harshly. “He was against Bill getting a job there, and I think he fears that because he has proven so reliable, there is even a faint chance he may be taken into management before him. Bill was sure Mr. Gray hated him.”  
   
Cas frowned.  
   
“It is indeed a thorny problem”, he said. “Let us assume that from what we know thus far, the guilty man must have been one of the other three men in the case; Mr. Gray, Mr. Chetwynd or Mr. Pullow. Yet I am to assume that all three were in the bank whilst efforts were being made to free your husband, so they could not have been removing the money. Is it certain the money was there before your husband got locked in?”  
   
“All three men said they made sure it was there”, she said. “The managers left for a meeting whilst Bill and Mr. Gray finished checking, and that man claimed Bill said he had left his pen inside. That was when he got locked in.”  
   
“Mrs. Etheridge”, Cas said heavily, “I am not going to pretend that this will be easy. You have clearly had a hard life thus far, and I would not delude you with false hopes. I think it is best if Inspector Henriksen gives me the full case notes to read through, and I proceed from there. If there are any developments, I promise that you will be informed.”

+~+~+

Yes, I did remember to use the ties. And yes, it was another night to remember!

III

Over the next week, Cas worked tirelessly in investigating the three possible suspects, but to no avail. He told me early on that he did consider either that they were working together, or that maybe William Etheridge was indeed implicated in the crime, but finding proof of any particular theory proved impossible. All three men had left the bank at one time or another on the day in question, but all had done so in the company of at least one other staff member, and witnesses were found who confirmed that they had been where they had said they were. It was very frustrating.

“Can it be that Mrs. Etheridge's faith in her husband is misplaced?” Cas wondered aloud on the last day of September. He had just returned from France, having travelled across that great country to Marseilles in an attempt to find any traces of how Mr. Etheridge has ended up so far from England. All he had found was a bell-boy at a hotel in the French coastal town who remembered a plump and badly-dressed lady arriving with a particularly heavy chest around that time, which the boy recalled because his friend who had helped him hoist it up to her room had quipped that it was heavy enough to contain a body. She had stayed a week under the name of 'Mrs. Smith'.

I gazed at him across my morning paper. He looked tired and careworn, his failure to solve this case clearly weighing him down. He was refusing to take on any new cases until it was over, and I was beginning to fear for his health again. Though at least our relationship was back where it had been, and we were coupling regularly.

“You will sort it all out in the end”, I said with a confidence I did not really feel. Indeed, I was beginning to have the distinct sense that this case might be Cas' first major failure (being Cas, he counted two of his early minor cases as failures, which I thought was unfair because in one case a policeman made a lucky discovery which led him to the solution, whilst in the other the criminal actually confessed when they found who was on his case). “I have faith in you.”

“What is in the paper that is causing you to frown so?” he inquired.

“It is this brutal murder of two women in the East End”, I said. “The third and fourth in the area. The killer seems to have sliced open the body for some reason.”

“Killers rarely have 'reason' in the way normal people understand it”, Cas said sagely. “I have another lead up in Cheshire, but I do not know whether it will amount to anything.”

+~+~+

October began, and the inclement weather seemed to reflect the moods of us both. Inspector Henriksen came round to ask for Cas' help as regards the murders in the East End. I fully expected him to refuse, but to my surprise he said he would look into the matter. That concerned me, as I feared he was once more overtaxing himself.

The Cheshire lead had turned out to be a dead end, but at the end of the month Cas wanted to travel down to the Somersetshire resort of Weston-super-Mare, as a retired Leviathan employee there had some possible information. I would have gone with him, but the daughter of one of the surgery's most important supporters most inconsiderately decided to go into labour whilst visiting her lawyer at the Inns of Court, and I had to let him travel alone. 

I little knew that the key to the solving the Etheridge case was about to be handed to the most unlikely person. Myself.

+~+~+

Mrs. Caterham's delivery was, mercifully, a relatively quick one, and almost comedic in the way the presence of a lady giving birth and, very soon, a screaming baby so clearly disconcerted the bewigged lawyers who were having to work around her. As often with these things, clearing up everything afterwards took just as long, and it was mid-afternoon before I was finished. As it was a Sunday, I could have headed back to Baker Street, but Dame Fortune caused me to remember that Mrs. Etheridge had sent a note round just as Cas was leaving for Somersetshire. As I knew her house lay less than a mile away, I decided to call in and speak to her in person. 

Number Eighty-Four St. Audrey's Crescent was a small lodging-house, although very well-kept; the garden was particularly impressive, I thought. The landlady Mrs. Kennett admitted me, and I was shown up to Mrs. Etheridge's room. She apologized for the mess (it was a lot tidier than Baker Street, I thought) and I explained how things were going, trying to put as positive a spin on things as I could. I was sure she could see through my false optimism, but she did not challenge me on it, for which I was grateful.

Cas and I had visited her husband but once in prison, a quivering beta of a man, and it was that visit that hung in my memory as I was leaving. I stared down at the combined coat-cum -shoestand in surprise, and when the lady asked if anything was wrong, I said I was merely distracted. Which was true enough, because I did not like what I was seeing.

I returned to Baker Street, arriving only minutes before Cas, who looked a little more hopeful. Perhaps his Somersetshire trip had yielded results. I decided not to tell him of my discovery until we had eaten our regular evening meal together; at least he was eating well, which was one less worry. Once we were sat by the fire with our coffees, I decided it was time to speak.

“You have been on edge all evening”, he said, cutting into my thoughts. “The birthing went well?”

“A healthy baby boy, six pounds and one ounce, he and his mother doing well”, I said. “No, it was what happened after that has unsettled me. I went to see Mrs. Etheridge.”

He looked at me curiously. “And?” he prompted.

I took a deep breath.

“I think she may be seeing another man.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“Why?” he asked. 

“Remember when we saw her husband in jail the other week?” I said.

“Yes?”

“It was stupid, but the one thing that stuck with me was that he had big feet for such a small man”, I said, feeling a little embarrassed as I spoke. “Yet on the shoe-rack there was a pair of smart men's shoes that were at most a size six. I managed to slide my own boot next to them whilst she fetched me my bag.”

He stared hard at me.

“I don't see why a visitor would leave their boots there”, I said plaintively. “I mean, that would suggest that they slept there. I asked the landlady Mrs. Kent if anyone had been bothering Mrs. Etheridge as regards all the publicity, but she said no-one had come to the house, and her room was right next to the door so she would know if anyone did.”

He was still staring at me.

“Have I said something dumb?” I ventured eventually. 

“We have to go and see William Etheridge”, he said.

“Can it not wait until morning?” I asked. It was after seven o'clock on a Sunday evening, and I doubted the prison guards at Newgate would be happy at receiving a visitor, even one as famous as Cas. Then I looked at his shining eyes, and had my answer. He knew.

“I'll get my coat”, I said.

He wrote out a quick message and summoned a boy to dispatch it, and we were on our way.

IV

I spent the entire cab journey to the jail wondering exactly how a pair of shoes or Mrs. Etheridge's possible infidelity could have solved the case for Cas, but to no avail. I had been right about our reception, although with a few sovereigns in the right pockets, we were soon admitted to the reception area. A few moments later, a sleepy William Etheridge was pushed into the room, handcuffed and bedraggled.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Etheridge”, Cas said. “Sergeant, I would be grateful if you would remove those bracelets. I hardly think two grown men could be endangered by this personage.”

The warder snorted his disapproval, but did as he had been asked. William Etheridge flexed his arms and looked at us hopefully. It was rather pitiful. Cas stared pointedly at the warder, and with another grunt he left us alone. 

“Sir, you have been sorely used”, Cas said gently. “I have three things to tell you, and I wish you to remain silent until you have heard all three. Nod if you understand.”

The man looked even more scared, but nodded.

“First”, Cas said, “I know all about Malleus Maleficarum. There have always been groups and individuals who fancy themselves as being crime lords, or whatever the current term is. You had thought to leave that world behind, yet you unwittingly walked straight into its embrace, did you not?”

The man looked ready to bolt back to the safety of his cell at this point, but eventually he nodded again. Cas took a notepad out of his pocket and wrote something on it, then passed it over to the man, who read it. And this time, I feared he was going to pass out.

“The leader of Malleus Maleficarum”, Cas said calmly. “I spoke to Belton, a clerk who worked at the bank last year. They tried to recruit him, but he retired rather than do what they asked. He guessed they would target someone else in the bank, and that with your past it might be you. But they already had you, did they not?”

The man gulped, and nodded.

“I'm a dead man walking!” he moaned.

“I can arrange for you to be sent to another country, with enough money to start again and a new name”, Cas said. 

“There's no escape!”

“I have sent a telegram to my brother”, Cas said. “In one hour or less, you will be released into his custody. You will be on the ship tonight.”

For the first time, the man looked hopeful. I wondered what on earth was going on.

+~+~+

We stayed at the jail until Mr. Balthazar Novak arrived – thirty minutes; the man moved fast – and made sure that he and Mr. Etheridge had left before returning to Baker Street.

“But what about his wife?” I asked as we rattled along. “Surely she will want to be with him, even if she is unfaithful.”

“I am sure that Mrs. Etheridge has not been unfaithful”, Cas said with a knowing smile. “But in the interests of security, it is best that they not be together just now. We shall summon her to Baker Street tomorrow morning, and apprise her of developments.”

+~+~+

Mrs. Etheridge was shown up to our rooms as ten o'clock precisely the following morning. She was clearly surprised to find Inspector Henriksen there, although she immediately thanked him for recommending Cas to her all those months ago. Clearly she was unaware of her husband's departure.

“I have some good news”, Cas said, as he sat at his desk. Mrs. Etheridge and I sat the other side, whilst Henriksen stood somewhat awkwardly by the door. I wondered at this unusual arrangement – Cas always preferred the fireside chairs for his discussions – but said nothing. “Your husband is free.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Then I can go and take him home?” she asked.

“Not exactly”, Cas admitted. “I am afraid that your husband fell foul of a new crime syndicate which has recently extended its unholy tentacles into our city. It is called Malleus Maleficarum.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“It is Latin for 'hammer of the witches'”, I put in. “From a treatise published many centuries back against all forms of witchcraft.”

“Oh”, she said. 

“Indeed”, Cas said. “And I am pleased to say that your husband is now in a safe place where that organization can no longer reach him. Indeed, we have the identity of the leader of that organization, and they will soon be under arrest.”

“But I received a message from Bill only this morning”, she said, opening her purse.”

The events of the next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. Mrs. Etheridge withdrew not a note but a pearl-handled revolver, and aimed at Cas. I yelled a warning and swung my arm at her just as the gun went off.

V

There was an agonized cry from Cas, and the sound of two more shots, which I only later registered as Henriksen's gun. 

Mrs. Etheridge lay slumped in her chair, but I ignored her, too concerned for my friend. The bullet had clearly been meant for his heart, but my wild swing had pushed its trajectory to the left, though Cas was still bleeding. Henriksen was taking the precaution to make sure Mrs. Etheridge had dead – he had aimed for the head and, I later discovered, hit both times – before he came round and helped me lift Cas and carry him to the couch. There was far too much blood, and I fought desperately to try to staunch the flow. 

“Dean”, he gasped, and I snorted in exasperation. “Did you....”

“She is dead”, I told him, whilst Henriksen whispered “ambulance” and ran from the room. “And I will kill you if you die without telling me how you knew!”

“May not have to”, he gasped. Then his head fell back, and he was unconscious as I fought on to try to stop the blood from leaving his body. I spared a final glace of hatred to the dead woman slouched in the chair before turning my full attentions back to the man I loved. 

+~+~+

I did not sleep that night, even though the doctors at the hospital had assured me early on that Cas would pull through. My desperate lunge had saved his life; had the bullet been a few inches further to the right, he would have been dead. He would be recuperating for at least a month, the doctors told me, but he was out of danger.

The thought of a life without that blue-eyed son of a bitch in it was horrible. How dare he go and try to die on me!

It was only the following morning that I had the wits to remember that Cas had a family, and they would probably quite like to be informed of what had happened. Fortunately the way from the hospital back to Baker Street went by the current hotel at which I knew his brother Gabriel worked, so after I had gone home for a change of clothes and to shave, I came back via the hotel, where I was fortunate enough to catch him on his shift. He thanked me for letting him now and promised to inform the rest of the family for me, although I sensed that he knew something of what had happened already. In which case I was not surprised.

+~+~+

Cas spent a further week in the hospital before he was ready to be discharged. Although perhaps it would be truer to say that after a week, several of the doctors and nurses were threatening to shoot him themselves if he wasn't removed; Cas did not make the best patient as I well knew, even if he always took advice from me as a doctor. 

Gabriel Novak had wanted his brother to spend some time at his hotel, away from any pressures of work, but Cas insisted that he missed the familiarity of Baker Street and wanted to go back there (in private he told me he feared being in the hotel would only encourage his family to visit him even more, which would not speed his recovery!). Two men carried him up to our rooms and laid him on the couch, which I had moved as requested to the window for him. He looked deathly pale, but he was alive, and that was all I cared about.

“I suppose you would like to know the details of the case”, he said, sounding almost guilty. “For your records, doctor.”

And that did it. I had endured a night of terror and a week of sheer hell with him in the hospital, but now he was back, his first worry was that I might be affected by not knowing about the case. I almost snarled as I strode across the room and grabbed him harshly by the shoulders, remembering slightly too late that that was where he had been shot. Judging from the shocked look on his face, my reaction had more than surprised him.

“You bastard!” I yelled, careless of what our fellow tenants might think. “You almost died on me! You think I care about a bloody case when I'm about to lose the man I love?”

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before I belatedly realized I was probably hurting him by holding him too tightly. I relaxed my grip and fell back onto the nearby chair, shaking. Mercifully, he saved me from further humiliation by explaining how he had got from a pair of shoes to a major crime syndicate.

“Your discovery set up a whole new line of thought”, he explained. “You saw them and assumed infidelity. I assumed that men's shoes need not be worn by a man.”

“William Etheridge and his wife were of similar builds, and she was the mastermind behind the whole scheme. I did not seriously consider her until I visited the old clerk in Somersetshire, and he told me about the approach made to him. I had been aware of the existence of Malleus Maleficarum for some time, but I had not yet encountered any of their nefarious deeds. And the choice of name – unusual in a male-dominated industry such as crime – seemed significant.”

“On the day of the robbery, Mrs. Etheridge drugs her husband's breakfast or morning drink and one of her confederates then hits him over the head – not too hard; she wants him alive to further confuse the police. He will be kept drugged until they want him to wake up. She then dresses in his clothes and goes to the bank. As usual, there is a check on the extra money, and she engineers a return to the strong-room, where she locks herself in. As it is on one of those timer mechanisms, she has twenty-four hours before it can be reopened, and it will take them several hours to drill through the reinforced wall. The air-holes were of course unnecessary; her confederates have been drilling a tunnel to the room for some weeks, and it is through that that she and the money will shortly disappear.”

“The only weakness in the plan was that the bank might come round to the house to inform her of events before she can return to being Mrs. Etheridge again. Fortunately the exit hole takes only moments to open, and she can leave her confederates to the removal of the money. When Mr. Pullow arrives at her house, she is the distraught wife receiving news of her trapped husband.”

“Meanwhile another confederate, a lady doubtless chosen for her difference in appearance to Mrs. Etheridge, has taken a journey to the South of France with a large chest which, no-one notices, has air-holes in it. She spends a week there, during which time William Etheridge is deposited in a back-alley to be found by French police. When he is returned to England, he has no memory of anything.”

“And all that from a pair of shoes!” I said admiringly.

“I could not have done it without your observational skills”, he said firmly. “Though I doubt you will want to publish this case in the foreseeable future, much of the credit is undeniably yours. 

I smiled in gratitude, and went to order some tea.

“Dean?” he said from behind me.

“Yes?” I said.

“Thank you”, he said quietly. “For everything.”

I blushed horribly.

+~+~+

Next, a case that never should have been....


End file.
